String Theory
by princesswingnut
Summary: In the year 2010, Peter and Hiro discover that they need to change all 26 alternate universes to change the past. Other timelines include: Claire raised by Niki, Shanti Suresh as the world's most powerful special, a universe with a cure, etc. CH 50 UP!
1. Alpha: The Elegant Universe

When Peter Petrelli came into the room, Hiro Nakamura nearly stabbed him.

He'd told Peter and Audrey very clearly that he was not to be bothered when he was meditating. Audrey had smiled grimly in that way she had, her cold cop-smile, but Peter had just rolled his eyes. That was the problem with Peter these days—he took everything either way too seriously, or not seriously enough. He hadn't thought, though, that Peter would be foolish enough to crash into the room like a racehorse out of a gate, startling Hiro with his sword so close to hand. But then that was Peter—never what you'd expect.

When he heard the door opening his body reacted immediately, the sword in his grip before his eyes even came open and slicing straight at Peter's head. He tried to check the blow when he realized who it was—_wouldn't want to ruin that pretty-boy face, it's gotten us in more than a few doors—_but of course it wasn't necessary. Peter grabbed the blade open-palmed, barely flinching as the edge sent blood spurting through his fingers, twisting the sword out of Hiro's grip and sending it clattering against the wall. Hiro jumped back a few steps, trying to throttle his kill-now adrenaline instincts back down.

"Ow," Peter said, glaring at him reproachfully. As he uncurled his bloody right hand, the wound knitted itself together like a blossom closing, turning to healthy skin in a matter of seconds. "Jeez, take my head off, why don't you?"

Hiro put an exasperated hand to his forehead, surprised as always at how cold it was after low-circulation meditating. "If you weren't so quick, I would have," he snapped. "I _told_ you not to bother me when I was meditating."

"I understand _now_," Peter grumbled. "If you would have explained that you turn into a Samurai Killing Machine when awakened from your holy training trance, I probably would have been a little more careful. I thought you were just being antisocial and weird again."

"Peter, what do you need?" Hiro said, slicking his hair back into a tight no-fuss ponytail at the base of his head. "Please tell me you've got a good reason for interrupting me and almost getting yourself killed."

And there it was again—the Peter Petrelli switch. In an instant, Hiro saw him go from careless joking to dark intensity, an instant yin-yang switch that was as unnerving to him as Niki Sanders had ever been. He hadn't been like this, before the bomb—Hiro remembered when he'd been whole. "As a matter of fact, I do," he said, and he was deadly serious, no trace of the light banter left on his face. He pulled a chair out of from the coffee table and sat on it backwards, sliding a book across the tabletop.

Hiro picked the book up and turned it over, dubious. "Where'd you get this? You can't just walk into a bookstore—"

"Stole it," Peter said evenly. "It's called _The Elegant Universe_, Hiro. It's the answer to all our problems."

"Seems a little short for that," Hiro said dryly, but he looked at the book with a little more interest, flipping open the inside cover. "'String theory, many physicists believe, is the key to the unified field theory'—Peter, what the hell is this?"

"I know, it sounds like junk, but _look_." He snatched the book out of Hiro's hand and flipped open to a page near the end of the book. "Look at this chapter: _More Dimensions Than Meet the Eye_. Don't you get it? We've been doing this all wrong!"

Hiro shook his head, falling back into a chair. "Please, keep talking until you make sense."

"I've been reading through this all day," Peter explained. "This is what we've been looking for. We've been trying to fix the past, right? Going back and back and back, changing things, only nothing _ever_ changes. The world just bends with us, swallows up our modifications and we always come back to the same present. We've been going crazy trying to figure out why."

"Crazy is definitely the word I would use," Hiro said sardonically.

"Well, this is why," Peter said, tossing the book down with a self-satisfied _thump_. "See, there isn't just one universe. There are—get this—_twenty-six _different dimensions. Twenty-six, and we've been running around in only _one_ of them. Apparently, they're all sort of interconnected, and we won't get anywhere just changing one."

Hiro felt a very bad day fall onto him, bending his shoulders in with its weight. He put his head in his hands and tried to think of a way that this could be positive. "I should have known," he said, words muffled by his hands. "There were _Star Trek_ books about this. A whole series. So, you're saying that we have to find a way to get to twenty-five other parallel dimensions, now?"

"Apparently that would be the thing to do," Peter agreed. A pause, while they both stared glumly at the holographic book cover, winking glibly up at them. "Any ideas?"

Hiro was saved a response—he did not, incidentally, have any ideas—by the appearance of the one person who could make his day better. Audrey Hanson stuck her blond head in the door, and he immediately perked like a watered flower—but she was not smiling, and suddenly it seemed unlikely that his day was going to turn better after all. "Code Delta," she said urgently.

"Honey," he explained patiently. "Peter and I don't actually understand any of your crazy FBI codes, remember?"

She thrust her chin forward. "I've explained them to you a million times, I don't know how you don't—"

"Be patient with us, Master," Peter deadpanned, "we are but your humble students."

"Would you shut up?" she snapped, and it became abruptly clear that there was, indeed, a serious problem. "_Code Green_! That means an enemy intrusion! Homeland Security is here. They found us."

---

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sorry about all the tedious exposition, I just had to get it out of the way. String theory is B-O-R-I-N-G in theory, but kind of fun in practice, so we'll see if I can't get some action going soon :)


	2. Alpha: Game Set Match

"Homeland Security is here," Audrey said. "They found us."

It took Hiro's brain exactly two and a half seconds to process this information, and then he grabbed his sword and sprinted for the door, swearing fluently in Japanese. He heard the other two follow him into the main room of The Loft, but moments later he wished they hadn't—there were voices bouncing in from the hall outside, and the door was buckling inward as if someone was trying to kick it in. He stopped swearing and pulled his sword from his sheath, readying himself for the door's collapse.

Audrey grabbed him by the shoulder and dragged him back, pulling him and Peter into a corner. "You idiots," she hissed, "don't you remember the drill for this? Make us invisible, Peter, _now!_"

Peter grabbed frantically for their wrists and concentrated, blending them away into nothing just as the door splintered open, swinging crazily off its hinges. "Dammit," Audrey whispered. "We're going to have to get that fixed."

"Let's just hope it's the only thing that gets broken," Hiro said lightly, watching the Homeland Security men pour in, like cockroaches in their lacquered black vests.

"Why are we hiding?" Peter said hotly, voice low and snapping like a campfire. "There's only a few dozen of them, we could take them, easy."

"Because," Audrey said patiently, leaning back as one man walked past her, inches away, "we'd like to keep living here. If we kill a whole team of HS thugs, we're not exactly going to be low-profile anymore."

"It's not like we couldn't hide the bodies," Peter protested.

"Shut up," Hiro said absently, watching the men search the room, poking the muzzles of their guns through drawers and in closets. He watched them mill around him like he was air, like he was nothing, and he tightened his hand around his sword grip—he'd spent the better part of his life in Japan being invisible, and it wasn't pleasant to relive the experience.

As they looked on, not daring to move, they saw the door swing open again, snapping yet another hinge into useless pieces. A man came down the stairs, broad-shouldered and purposeful, black expression and black-and-white hair. "_Parkman_," Audrey breathed. "We must be getting pretty important."

They watched Director of Homeland Security Matt Parkman stride to the center of the room to talk with one of the black-clad men. They couldn't hear the words being spoken, but they caught the gist of the conversation from the angry thrust of Matt's shoulders—they had not been found. Suddenly, he paused in his irate gesturing and cocked his head, pivoting slowly to the side.

"He's looking at something," Peter said slowly. "He's looking at—oh, God." His heart gave a terrific jerk, giving up circulation in favor of shock. "_He can hear us_. He hears us thinking, we have to _go_!"

The other two gasped in simultaneous realization and jerked as he had, but he kept a firm grip on their wrists—no point in aggravating the situation by appearing out of thin air—and pulled them toward the window. As Matt advanced quickly on them, Peter shoved his companions to the ledge, urging. "Go! Jump, get out!"

"Are you insane?" Hiro snapped. "We can't just jump out a window, we're not _you_."

"_Fire escape_," Peter said exasperatedly, and pushed them out.

Three pairs of feet clanged onto the rusted metal fire escape, and the ladder came free under the impact, unfolding with an inconvenient huge noise of release. No longer doubting their presence at all, Matt turned back to his team, yelling, "They're_ here_! Get down to the alley, and you, follow them out the window!"

The three fugitives scrambled down the dangerously swaying ladder, trading the cover of invisibility at last for the sloppy necessity of speed. As they dropped gracelessly to the ground below, they could already hear commandos piling down the staircase, rushing to find them and take them. They gazed up at the livid white face of Matt Parkman and his men, swarming down the ladder after them, looked again to the staircase now spilling more men, and suddenly felt like foxes in a hunt

Audrey grabbed Hiro's hand and turned him toward her. "Hiro, get us out of here!" she commanded.

"My pleasure," he yelled back, putting his hands on their arms and _thinking_, heaving himself away from the deadly situation until _pop_. Suddenly, the air was darker and tasted different, flavored with cigarette smoke and sweat.

"Cici's?" Audrey said approvingly, looking around at their new location. "I guess this'll do for now."

They surveyed the room with the appreciation of the nearly-caught, taking in the pulsing backlights and the sleek low bars with their candy-colored drinks. Cici's Bar was a place they seemed to end up more and more these days—and for good reason. Cici's was a central meeting place for the Underground, the organization of Specials fighting not to be cut down by their government. _Not to make too big a deal about it_, Hiro thought sardonically. _It's not a terribly _effective_ rebel movement. The only thing they can seem to get organized is booze_. That said, it was still one of Hiro's favorite places, especially in broken-winged Ground Zero New York—it was a place where he could be himself with no secrets or familiar lies, a place where the supernormal was still frightening but not shameful.

They took their usual seats at their usual table and ordered a round of drinks—rather harder than their usual orders, they had all been through a shock—and put their heads determinedly together.

"Well, that was fun," Hiro said, taking Audrey's hand and gripping it like he thought they might have to run again. "Nothing like a good witchhunt in the morning. Unless, of course, you're the witch."

"Who said you're the witch?" Peter pointed out, draining nearly half his drink in one swallow. "Don't forget, it could be our girl Audrey."

"Don't be silly," Audrey said brusquely. "You know I haven't manifested any powers."

"You were on Suresh's list," Peter said reasonably.

"Then maybe he made a mistake," she said resolutely. "I'm _normal_."

"Tell that to Matt Parkman," Peter said humorlessly.

"Enough," Hiro said evenly. "We've got more important things to deal with."

"Damn," Peter said, looking down at his hands. "I've forgotten my book. It had better be in one piece when we get back."

"You can put in a claim if it's damaged, I'm sure," Hiro told him. "I hear the government is good about things like that. Anyway, tell Audrey what you found out."

"It's pretty complicated," Peter said, sliding his finger around the edge of his glass, "and it's kind of tricky to explain without the book. The short version is, there's twenty-six parallel universes and we've been mucking around in only one. Basically, me and Hiro have got to go figure there other dimensions out before we can change _anything_."

"Uh-huh," Audrey said thoughtfully, steepling her fingers under her chin. "Well, why don't you?"

Hiro and Peter exchanged dealing-with-a-crazy-woman looks, and Peter said, "What, now?" in a blank sort of way that he hoped communicated the foolishness of her suggestion.

"I'm not sure how all this time-bending stuff works out," she said, "but I think we can all agree that now would be better than later. Get our city back, you know?"

"Audrey," Hiro explained patiently, taking her other hand, "we've never _done_ this before. I have no clue how to hop to another dimension."

"So what?" she said. "You have a thought-based ability, Hiro. You didn't know how to time-travel at all, the first little while, but you still did it."

"And, as I believe I told you, I managed to land myself in all sorts of bad places, like feudal Japan, and Las Vegas. I'm not really wanting to do that again."

"Right, then," she said sarcastically, "I've got another suggestion. We should all just sit here, feeling important with our new knowledge and never, ever doing anything about it." She fixed them with that _look_, the one that made them feel about five years old. Seeing them shrink back from her, she softened slightly, putting her hand on Hiro's. "Just _try_," she pleaded.

"All right," Hiro caved. "What about you, Peter? Are you in?"

"Most unfortunately yes," he said. "So what do you say? We just…think 'alternate universe'?"

"Sounds good," Hiro said, already concentrating.

Peter shrugged, closed his eyes—_alternate universe, alternate universe­_—and _pop_.

With a vast, blanket feeling of foreboding, he allowed himself to wonder where he was. Then, he opened his eyes.

And blinked. Shut them again, and opened them.

"_Simone?_" he said.


	3. Beta

"_Simone?_" Peter gasped, surprised on two separate, earth-shattering levels. On one hand, he was hurt by the sight of her, sucker-punched breathless to see her walking, smiling, living. However, this hurt was rapidly being overwhelmed by another kind of surprise, an overwhelming sweep of bizarre, displaced disbelieving.

She didn't look like Simone—or, at least, no part of the Simone he'd ever seen, so perversely different that it made him slightly dizzy. She was standing in front of him looking like a 50s commercial for cookware, with a lacy white apron around her waist and a pan of muffins in her hand. He was aware, in some part of his brain, that he was gaping like a landed fish, but he didn't seem able to do anything about it. She, strangely, didn't seem much surprised to see him in her kitchen.

"Hi, honey," she said, putting the muffins down on the counter and sashaying over to kiss him on the cheek. "What are you doing home so early? I thought the hospital needed you until seven." Her lips against his skin were an instant reality check, snap-smashing him back to earth with a violent start that she didn't notice, busy pulling hot muffins from the tin. "Did you do something with your hair?" she asked detachedly. "You seem different today."

His jaw snapped finally shut with a _clack_ as he scrambled for some kind of an answer, blindsided into incoherent uselessness by this unexpected possibility. _I have to leave_, he thought wildly. _Hiro can do this one, I can't take it_. He prided himself on the shell he'd developed these last three years, the unfeeling hidden heart he'd forged from the ashes of New York City. But here was Simone, standing in front of him looking so flushed and pretty and oh, he still loved her and he could feel it like a gun pointed at his heart. He looked at her and, suddenly, he was the old Peter again, feeling loving sensitive innocent weak.

This was not acceptable. He forced himself to look away from Simone, staring fixedly at the spotless steel counters, ultramodern-domestic and shining like knives. _Nathan_, he told himself firmly_, be like Nathan. Now, _answer_ her, before you create one of those stupid rifts Hiro's always talking about. _"Different?" he heard himself saying, and somehow his voice was even, unshocked. "Don't be silly." He gave a forced laugh, wincing at its cardboard sound_. Damn. Must change the subject_. "So how was your day?"

"Same old, same old. There was a huge mix-up at the studio, Isaac's art got sent to San Francisco. San Francisco, can you believe it? How do these things happen?" She turned back to him, and the light caught something on her hand that flashed like flamespark. She was wearing a ring, thick gold stripe, fourth finger. As he stared at the ring with implications pouring in, he heard a noise from the next room, an indeterminate sound of entertainment, TV or radio or video game. Simone leaned out from the counter and called, "Benjamin! Ben, Daddy's home!"

Peter felt his knees quickly losing solidity, refusing to hold him, and he grabbed the counter behind him, swaying from this new blow. _A son_. _I have a son. Well—not _me_, but—!!! _He heard the patter of small feet approaching, and it swamped him with a dread he would have expected from an attacking monster, an oncoming train. He couldn't take this. He waited until Simone's back was turned again and then guiltily teleported, _pop_, gone back to safer worlds with less surprise.

Benjamin Petrelli came barreling into the kitchen headfirst, propelled by the word 'Daddy' and ready to tackle. He skidded to a stop in puzzlement, searching for a father that wasn't there in any kind of way. He was a specialized American mix of a three-year-old boy, round-headed and wide-mouthed with caramel latte skin. "Dad?" he echoed confusedly, looking to his mother to explain the false alarm.

Simone whirled around to the spot where Peter had stood, brow furrowed over her shock-green eyes. "Huh. He was here just a second ago, I don't know where he went. Peter?"

The front door slammed into the quiet, and Peter's voice sliced through to the kitchen. "Hello?" he yelled. "Hey, I'm home!"

Simone shook her head and directed a shrug at her son, entirely used to oddities by now. "We're in the kitchen, babe!"

Peter entered the kitchen only to be hit by a newly-energized Ben, attacking his legs with ferocious love. "Dad!" he crowed, burying his face in the knee of Peter's blue scrubs.

"Whoa!" Peter laughed, fresh off a day of saving people and bright with energy. He picked Ben up and spun him, grinning at what was always the best part of his day. He knew he'd become a cliché, a soppy Hallmark father—the best thing ever to happen to him, child had changed his life so much, blah blah blah—but he didn't care. He loved—loved, loved, _loved_—his son. He would have done anything for him, would cheerfully have died for him, in an instant and without thought. He sat Ben on the counter and looked him in the eye, attempting seriousness. "How was your day?" he asked.

"Good," Ben said glibly. "Mom made muffins."

"Is that true?" he asked Simone, mock-accusing. "Did you make _muffins_, Simone?"

"I certainly did," she said, coming over to kiss him hello. "Hey, weird question. Were you—_here_ a minute ago?"

"No," he said blankly, sliding arm around her waist and pulling her against him. "Why?"

She dropped her head and sighed. "No reason."

---

Once both Peter and Hiro had teleported off, Audrey discovered a slight flaw in their plan—with both of them gone, she suddenly felt very alone. She was sitting by herself in a corner bar table, and she realized aggrievedly that she probably now looked like some kind of weirdo loner, a hopeless alcoholic or a lonely desperate single. Fortunately, she didn't have to endure the feeling long—Peter appeared back in his seat within seconds of his disappearance, wild-eyed and upset.

"Peter?" she asked uncertainly. "What's wrong?"

"I am _not_ going back to that universe," he said vehemently. "Hiro can do that one, I am _not_ going back."

"What was it?"

"Simone," he told her. "Simone was alive, and we were _married_, and we had a _son_! And we were so weirdly _happy_! It was like _The Andy Griffith Show_ and _The Stepford Wives, _all in one! She made _muffins_!"

Audrey was used to Peter's mood swings by now, the occasional plunges into vengeful despair, but this kind of hysteria was a new one to her. _Where's Hiro when I need him_? _I don't know how to deal with this_. "It's okay," she said uncertainly, not at all sure that it was, in fact, okay. "It's not real Peter, it doesn't mean anything in this world. You don't have to deal with it."

He buried his head in his arms and collapsed on the tabletop, and she reached awkwardly over to pat him on the shoulder. He tensed slightly, and looked up at her hand like it was a bizarre foreign object, thrown by her stilted attempts at comforting.

She hastily withdrew her hand, and let him deal with his pain on his own.

---

"I'm running to the studio, honey," Simone called down the hallway as she slid her coat on. "San Francisco mixup emergency, I probably won't be home till late. Don't wait up for me."

Peter came through the entryway to give her a swift kiss. "All right, but you know I can't sleep when you're not here."

"So you're saying I put you to sleep?" she teased. "How very sweet. Anyway, don't let Ben stay up again, his bedtime is at _eight_, no matter how much he cries, you hear me?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said solemnly.

She gave him a small smile, and then walked out the door.

---

Simone walked with the quick steps of memory, familiar enough with her path to walk it fast and in heels, deftly skipping the boards she knew were creaky. She knew this place like she knew her own house, and lately she'd been spending so much time here, it might as well have been. It was a problem. But then, she had known that from the start.

The door was open, so she walked in, flanked on either side by rows of familiar artwork, like a path leading her to something. To someone, as it happened—a someone who didn't notice her come in, wrapped up in his palette and his private world, painting, as he always was painting. "Isaac," she said.

He stopped mid-brushstroke, lighting like a new bulb at the sight of her. "Simone. I wasn't sure if you got my message."

She smiled, her expression all full of things that she hoped he couldn't see in the half-light of his loft. "Would I stand you up?" she said lightly, then, "Where's Candice?"

"In Texas," he assured her. "She won't be back for two days."

"Good," she said. And she kissed him.

--

Claire Bennet stood outside the door of Isaac's loft, staring through the clear inset of glass in the door as if she had been turned her to stone. Her father's orders for Isaac were clutched loosely in her hand, forgotten—her attention was completely claimed by the sight she was hating to see through the door.

Isaac and Simone were barely visible in the light of the slim moon, but they were just unfortunately visible enough, locked together in fluid motion with their hands tangled at each other's necks. _No_, her brain was saying with a calmness that she was starting to fear was shock. _No, no, _no, _I am not seeing this_. _This is crazy, this is not okay. Isaac and Simone. _Simone??

They finally moved out of her small square of vision, and she regained the presence of mind to walk away, fast syncopated footsteps of disillusionment. _Isaac and Simone_ Petrelli_. I have to tell Peter. _She nearly missed a stair as se imagined breaking the news to Peter, the way his face would crumple in on itself. _I can't tell him. Only I _have_ to_, _dammit!_

The unlucky glimpse burned in her and weighed on her, crouched buried in her chest. _This shouldn't have been my responsibility_. She hated them for making it her burden, for putting the image in her head. She had to get rid of it—but how could she, without passing the weight on to someone else?

Peter deserved better than this.

---

Isaac flipped his watch face up and studied the numbers, pushing his sweaty hair back from his face. "Eight o'clock," he told Simone. "Bennet said he was going to send some commission orders between now and nine."

Simone was busy doing up the buttons of her dress, breathing coming back to normal. "Don't worry, I should probably get back anyway. I don't think Peter will ever suspect, bless his heart, but I don't want to push it."

"No," said a voice from the stairs. "I would hate for him to catch on."

Simone froze in horror, top three buttons still hanging open—of course she knew the voice, knew it instantly as she would have known a heart attack. Sure enough, Peter materialized halfway down the staircase, eyes glittering with dilated black pupils and sending out waves of angry cold, more furious than she'd ever seen him, had ever hoped to see him.

"It's okay," he said in the same strange, detached voice. "Ben's in bed. I made sure before I left." He was looking straight at her, and she wished he wouldn't, hated the acid sting of his fuming contempt.

"Peter—" she tried.

"Did you think I was an idiot?" He spat each word like it left a bad taste in his mouth. "Did you think I wouldn't fid out? _I can read minds_, you little fool."

"You promised." She hated the petulant way the words came out, but her brain was out of control, panicking. "You promised you would never use it on me."

"And what a damn stupid promise that turned out to be."

"Peter," Isaac said, trying for a calm, commanding tone. "Listen, we can—"

"If I were you, Mendez, I wouldn't say another word," Pete lashed out, his voice venomous quick like a snakebite. Something materialized in his right hand—a gun, which he brought quickly up to them, the point wavering between one of them and the other.

"I hate you both," he said tonelessly against the sound of his gun cocking. "I hope you burn in Hell."

"We'll see you there." Isaac was surprised at his own nerve, but he supposed he hadn't much else to lose.

Peter smiled in a way that he never should have had to smile, and they knew that they would remember the smile the rest of their lives—however long those would turn out to be. "Yes," Peter said. "Yes, you will."

---

Audrey swirled the liquid in her glass, throwing another sidelong glance at Peter, who was still laid out on the table looking like he'd been hit by an emotional A-train. "I wish Hiro would come back," she said quietly. Then, in an eyeblink, he was there beside her again, looking exhausted but not nearly in as bad of shape as Peter had been. "And now I wish I had a million dollars," she announced. He stared at her. "Just checking," she said blithely. "So, how'd it go? Did you get a nice alternate universe? Peter's didn't go so well."

He turned to her, and he had an odd, intense look in his eyes. "Who's the President right now?"

She raised her eyebrows. _Weird question_. "Cameron O'Neill. Why?"

He paused, dropped his eyes to the tabletop, then looked back up at her again. "Are we sure?"


	4. Gamma

Hiro closed his eyes and concentrated, feeling the familiar roller-coaster drop in his stomach and the cold rush of air that always accompanied teleporting, then kept them closed for a few seconds as the disorientation faded.

He heard this new universe before he saw it, picked up the cattle-call sound of mass broadcast, the fuzzy blare of a speaker system somewhere very close. His eyes snapped open, instantly alert and scanning for threats. Frankly, he was a little surprised that the whole think-of-an-alternate-dimension-and-you're-there theory had worked, but now that he was here, he was beginning to wonder if it had been a good idea. It felt like walking into an airport and just getting on a random plane, not knowing where you would end up or what you would find there. It felt irresponsible.

The first thing he saw was Sylar. He opened his eyes inches away from a giant television, twelve feet of flatscreen Sylar behind a pulpit. He took an instinctual step away from the familiar face, his hand twitching towards his sword at his back, but the real Sylar was nowhere to be seen. He appeared to be standing on a sidewalk with department stores in a line before him, at the edge of a silent, unmoving crowd of people. He glanced carefully around, trying to make sure no one had seen him appear from thin air, but nobody seemed to be paying much attention to him. They were all staring fixedly at the screen, unblinkingly focused on Sylar's speech.

"…as the dominant power of the Western Hemisphere," he was saying. "It is our manifest destiny to spread to the corners of the earth, to reach out the arms of freedom and democracy to our neighbors and bring them into the light of day…"

As he spoke, Hiro felt his thoughts growing oddly muzzy, swimming feverishly out of his grasp. He shook his head to clear it, but the feeling only grew stronger, gumming his mind and bogging it down with a sudden, insistent pressure. _Hey, yeah_, he found himself thinking vaguely. _This guy knows what he's talking about. Manifest destiny. Good idea. _

He felt an abrupt, sharp grip on his arm, and then he was being dragged backward, hauled bodily out of the crowd. He struggled perfunctorily against the hand, but as he got farther from the TV, his head became lighter, clearer. Suddenly he had control of his thoughts again—he stopped struggling. He twisted around to get a glimpse of his rescuer, but only caught a look at long, black hair as she pulled him into a phone booth and shut the door. Now he could get a real look at her—a small-framed, hard-eyed female, about twenty years old with dark blue eyes and the black hair that he'd seen. Her face instantly struck sparks against his memory, but he couldn't _quite_ place her.

"Sorry about that," she said. "This is the only place where you can't hear the speakers. Now, what the hell do you think you're doing here, Hiro?"

He started at the mention of his name, giving her a searching look. "I want you to tell me who you are and what's going on," he said, not giving an inch to her hardball.

"It's _Claire_," she said impatiently, and the familiarity snapped together with a vengeance, putting her hair and angry eyes in context with the Claire that he knew. "You _know _that, Hiro, what kind of game are you playing? I thought you said you weren't coming back."

"I don't think I am who you think I am," he said slowly. "I'm…from another universe."

"Oh," she said darkly. "One of _those_. Well, then, I suppose I had better fill you in. Hi. Welcome to this dimension. We don't have a Hiro Nakamura in this universe anymore, because he's run off with a Hiro from _another_ dimension who apparently really needed help. I don't know how it doesn't bother you guys to be hanging out with _yourself_ all the time, but whatever. We don't have a Hiro Nakamura, but we've got a _lot_ of problems."

"I sort of picked up on that," he said wryly. "What was up with the mind-controlling TV?"

"That would be Gabriel Gray," she said. "Sylar. He pretty much runs this world. He's got some power of persuasion that from killing one of my dad's workers, where he can tell you to do anything and you'll do it."

"Like the Jedi!" Hiro said, then quieted, surprised at himself. That side of him was usually dormant, hibernating through a world that wouldn't let that person survive. He was long out of that phase; he didn't think he was a hero anymore.

It seemed to make her happy, though, the corner of her mouth bending upward to a smile that he hadn't seen on her yet. _That_ was the difference, he realized—the reason why he hadn't recognized her. The Claire Bennet he knew was _always_ smiling, simply out of habit if nothing else. It changed her face, this unnatural seriousness. "Yeah," she said. "Like the Jedi. Anyway, Sylar's the Secretary of Defense, and he had this TV system set up so that he could tell everyone what to do all of the time. Nobody ever protests, of course, they _can't_, and he just does whatever he wants and nobody stops him."

"What about Peter?" Hiro said, surprised. As jittery and jaded as his friend was, he'd never seen Peter talk himself out of a good cause.

Claire's jaw suddenly tensed and she looked down, muscles twitching up the side of her mouth. "Peter's dead," she told him in a tight, clear voice. "Peter's dead, and nobody can stop him. We've invaded Mexico and Canada already, and he's got his eye on South America."

"_Really?_" Hiro said, interested in spite of himself. "Doesn't the President, er…_mind_?"

"Not exactly," she said, and her voice was taut with bitterness, a barely-closed wound. "He's the President, too."

"Right," he said blankly, "and how does that work?"

"He took some shapeshifter's power, too, even before he took Eden's," she explained, wiggling to stop the telephone pressing into her spine. "So he killed the President, Nathan Petrelli, and impersonated him for awhile. You know Sylar, though—he can't stand being anonymous, not getting the credit and all. The instant he took Eden's power, he appointed himself Secretary of War and started ordering America about with a far more effective power than presidency. He hardly bothers to play Nathan anymore, except for world leaders and things."

"Wow," Hiro said, feeling slightly sick at the horror of this world, suddenly grateful for even the worst parts of his own dimension. "Wait—so why aren't you a mindless drone like everyone else?"

She grinned and reached for her ear, pulling a small object out of it to hold up for his inspection. "That would be the brilliance of Dr. Suresh. As soon as we realized what Sylar was doing—and it was a close call, too, we nearly ended up cattle like those poor suckers you saw—he pulled a 72-hour sleepless science binge and came up with these things. They're filters, I guess—all I really understand is that they stop the persuasion getting to your ears." She held up a finger, digging in her pocket and coming up with another small, reddish earplug. "Here, put these in. I always carry a couple extras."

As he took them from her and put them into his ears, he saw two figures approaching the phone booth, blue-clad with stern faces and pistols at their hips. "Oh, God," Claire said sourly. "It's the freaking Gestappo."

The men had reached them by now and began banging on the plastic walls of the booth. "Sir," they yelled importantly, "ma'am, come out here. We're going to need to see some ID."

Claire ignored them, pushing her jet-dark hair out of her eyes. "We're not watching the TVs," she explained tiredly, "so of course, we must be terrorists. Silly of me. Can you take us somewhere else?"

"Where? I don't know this place."

"Of course you do, it's New York," she said impatiently. "Just go to 5th Avenue, I'll take it from there."

He grabbed her arm and concentrated, sending them across the city (he'd always wondered how it worked—did they move in particles, like Star Trek, or all in one piece?). It was 5th Avenue, all right, but an unfamiliar one—the whole street seemed to be made up of sectioned pieces of glass, bright with colored lighting and full of gaudy costumelike clothes and shoes. He stared curiously in the shop windows as they passed, realizing that this must have been the shopping district in his world, before the bomb. Now 5th Avenue was nothing more than an unusually wide sort of alley, broken with gang warfare and layered with graffiti, the kind of street that you went around unless you wanted to be mugged.

"In here," she told him, opening the door to one of the boutiques, a white-and-silver shop with displays of frothy dresses, emblazoned with the name _Angela's_ over the door in sweepish curling letters.

He followed her dubiously into the store and behind a counter, weaving through the racks of hyperfashionable, ridiculous clothes, trying not to lose her in the sea of merchandise. She opened another door to the side of the counter and they went through it. It was darker in this room, more softly lit than the harsh white of the store, and he could only make out figures as his eyes adjusted, four of them. They were clustered around a huge map that filled the back wall, crisscrossed with strings and words and pictures, pointing and gesturing, talking in low voices. Their heads snapped around as the door opened, but they relaxed to see Claire—and then their eyes slid to him, and they froze.

He could make out the faces now: Matt Parkman (he felt himself hating the man instinctively, even though perhaps he hadn't done anything to deserve it in this dimension) and Hana Gitelman, Mohinder Suresh and that tall silent man whose name he didn't know. The Haitian, most people called him, but he'd always felt that to be slightly rude; his Japanese sensibilities rebelled at the impersonal label.

"What is _he_ doing here?" Hana said harshly, turning all the way around to fix him with a stiletto glare.

"Decided to come back, did you?" Matt chimed in. "Decided that maybe your _own_ world is important enough to save, huh? What a damn novel idea."

Claire moved slightly in front of Hiro, putting her hands up. "Hey, chill. This isn't our Hiro—and it's not the one from that concentration camp universe, either, this is a third one. As far as I know, he hasn't done anything to make you yell at him."

"All this universe-hopping," Mohinder said darkly. "It isn't _safe_." He turned to Hiro, arms crossed in unplacated challenge. "What do you want that's so important that it's worth risking the fabric of the space-time continuum? I hope there's no problem you're expecting us to deal with, because we've lost our only man with a moronic hero complex."

"I'm not trying to hurt you," Hiro replied, tense and snappish from all the negative energy in the room. "I don't want to take anything, I don't want to destroy anything, I just want some information."

"Oh yeah?" Matt said, jaw jutting defiantly forward. "What kind of information?"

"Tell me about your universe," he asked. "I'm trying to get an idea of every timeline out there, so just…tell me what's been happening, the things that have happened in the last five years. And while you're at it," he said thoughtfully, turning to face the back wall, "you could also tell me some more about this map."

---

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sorry about the delay...but it gets worse. I'm going on vacation. I'll be gone for about a month. Sorry about this--I shouldn't have started something I was going to have to press pause on, I should have thought this through a little better. Just hang in there, I WILL be back, I swear it. Thanks for all your support (and reviews :). I'll be back soon!


	5. Alpha: Construction

"So what you're saying," Peter said slowly, chin propped broodingly on his hand, "is that Sylar was really the President."

"Sort of," Hiro agreed, sliding another empty glass over to their stack, which was starting to get fairly tall. He wondered if perhaps they were getting drunk—a dangerous state for a terrorist fugitive. "He had a shapeshifting ability—it was really your brother who was President, but Sylar was impersonating him."

"Nathan's dead," Peter said, and his voice was like storm shutters slamming closed, end of subject.

"We know," Audrey assured him. "From what Hiro said, it sounds like he was dead in the other universe, too."

Peter gave her an unpleasant look, and she quickly retreated back behind the don't-ask-don't-tell of past tragedies. "I'll go get us some more drinks," she said tactfully, sliding out of her seat.

Peter watched her go. "I'm still not sure what you see in that girl," he informed Hiro.

"Are you insulting my girlfriend?" Hiro said mildly. "I think that means I'm supposed to beat you up. Or challenge you to a duel. One of the two."

"I don't think I meant to be insulting," Peter considered. "I mean—do you love her?"

"Not sure. I'm not sure she loves me, either. I think, at this point, it's more a case of two people clinging to each other because they've got nothing else to cling to. She keeps me out of loneliness."

"Flattering. Are you sure she's not just an Ando substitute?"

Hiro winced. "Well, aren't we blunt tonight? I think we can agree that my relationship with Ando was slightly more platonic."

Peter grinned, a real smile that showed too much, a little too sharp, and Hiro knew that he was hurting. Whatever fortifications Peter had made around himself, he'd never gotten much better at hiding what he felt—only better at keeping people from manipulating those feelings. He still had his heart on his sleeve, but he now had the ability to hold the world at arm's length, so that no one ever even got close to the sleeve at all. "That's what they all say," he said dryly. "Okay, kill the vicious backstabbing gossip, she's coming back."

"So, what do we think?" Audrey said, sliding glasses of amber liquid onto the table. "Is it safe to go back to The Loft yet?"

"Will it ever be?" Peter asked ironically, pulling a glass over to him with unconscious-habit telekinesis. "They obviously know where we live—who's to say they won't come shoot us dead in the middle of the night?"

"Yes," Audrey agreed, "but look at it this way: where else are we going to go that will be safer? In fact, their raid this afternoon makes it pretty unlikely that they'll raid again soon. They won't expect us to go back."

"That's such circular logic that it almost makes sense," Hiro grinned, kissing her lightly on the temple. "Okay. Let's go back."

---

Peter pushed the door open, and it twisted crazily on its broken hinges with a pained creak, revealing a room of broken glass and upturned furniture. He walked in with quick, angry steps, surveying the damage from the top of the staircase. "Damn it," he said with feeling. "_Damn it_!"

Hiro turned over a broken lamp with this foot, expression all gray resignation. Audrey walked straight past both of them, straight-line for the back corner of the room near the window. She dropped to the floor—winced as shards of windowglass pressed into her knees—and pried up one of the floorboards, peering inside the shadowed space with relief. "Everything's still here," she announced, pulling a handgun out of the floor. "Weapons, papers—they didn't find it."

Hiro crossed the room to her, hoping he wasn't breaking anything important as he felt glass give way under his boots. "Knew that would come in handy someday. Isaac used to keep his drugs down there."

Another aggravated yell of "Damn it!" came from the side room, and Peter stomped back out with a thunder-and-lightening glower, high-energy furious. "They took my _book_!" he accused, stabbing a finger behind him. "It's gone, they've taken it! How are we supposed to keep track of this universe thing without my book?"

Hiro took a step forward and felt something bounce off his foot—he glanced down to see a thick roll of off-white string, a homeless refugee of Isaac's extensive art-supply cabinet. He stared thoughtfully down at the spool, kicking it lightly with his toe, and the memory of a crisscross map flashed up across his eyes. "I have an idea," he said.

---

"Pull it straight!" Peter complained to Hiro, tugging the string between them until it went taut. "I can't get this attached."

Hiro sighted and drew the string tighter as Peter tried to fix a picture of Claire onto it, brow furrowed with concentration. "It's hard," he protested. "I can't hold both strings at once." He had a string gripped in his both hands and another wrapped around his wrist, anchoring the string Peter was working on. It was, he'd discovered, tricky to keep Peter's string steady while attaching things to his own—a long line that ran from windowsill to stair-rail, the record of their own history that Audrey had dubbed the 'Alpha' timeline. After hours of painstaking arts-and-crafts work, it was almost fully finished, and Peter was now trying to connect it to the Beta timeline—'Simone in the kitchen'—at points where they crossed histories.

It was far more difficult and precise a project than they'd thought—more like spinning a spiderweb than anything—but Hiro thought they were starting to get the hang of it. Audrey had bowed out early, declaring herself an artistic black hole, and had been uncharacteristically willing to deal with domestic issues instead, apartment cleaning and grocery shopping. The Loft now looked less like a localized natural disaster and more like a room, but their string-map was threatening a bigger mess than government thugs could create. _Twenty-six timelines­_, Hiro thought tiredly, _we're not going to be able to _walk_ in here. _He heaved a sigh and yanked the string tighter, unconsciously taking out his frustration on the innocent line until he felt it give way, snapped in the center, reduced to a sad, fluttering collapse like the wings of dying butterflies. Horrified, he looked up at Peter, who looked back at him with an agonized expression that said he wanted very much to scream. Instead, he covered his face with his hands and fell back on his heels, brown hair falling over to curtain his expression from view.

"This," he said, words muffled by his hands, "is hard."

"Tell me about it," Hiro commiserated, kicking glumly at their sad fallen timeline. "It looked easier on _their_ map. Of course, they only had to deal with two dimensions."

Peter brought his hands away from his face and dropped to his knees, apparently done grieving. "Well, come on," he said brusquely. "Stupid idea or not, we've gone too far now to turn back."

Hiro smiled wryly as he bent to pick up the strings. "Story of our lives."

---

Peter thought Hiro looked like some kind of an epic statue come to life, colored in reds by the failing sun against all his stark black and white. He looked utterly unbreakable, dangerous, unreal—this _is how a hero should look_. He silenced the twinge of jealously at once, reminding himself of the prices Hiro had paid for his lacquered hard shell, the frozen tears that made up his protective wall of ice.

_But haven't I paid the same price? Cried the same tears? Where is my hardness to show for it?_ No. _Unfair,_ Peter called on himself, waving a red flag to stop the train-wreck thoughts. _When did I become so petty? Hiro is my _friend. _This is stupid. _

He brought his glance away from the hero-profile to the room in front of them, strung with white lines across its length like strands of Christmas lights—but there was no festivity here, no lighthearted artistic creation, only purpose. "Well, there's that done," Hiro said, his voice low to match the dusk, fading out and darkening. "Three timelines mapped." A pause. "You know what we need now, right?"

"Let me guess," Peter said acerbically.

"More timelines," Hiro confirmed.

Peter dropped his eyes to the floorboards, glittering slightly with glass shards mashed into the wood, imbedded despite Audrey's determined cleaning. "Right, then," he said. "Delta and Epsilon, here we come."

"Actually, I would love for you to wait a minute," said a voice behind them.

Both men jumped like they'd been shot, whirling around with a yell of surprise and a scrape of sword-clearing-sheath. Standing languidly in their glassless windowsill was a tall, slender woman with bone-straight hair and sharp thrusting features, indolently unconcerned about the burst of flame in Peter's hand or the sword pointed at her chest.

"Sparrow," Peter said in annoyance and relief, closing his hand to snuff out the fire. "A little more warning next time, cupcake, unless you think 'charcoal briquette' would be a good look for you."

She smiled and crawled sideways onto the wall, hands sticking easily and allowing her to climb, like a comic-book character or a bug. "Can't quite help it," she said, hopping lightly down to the floor. "What, do you want me to use _doors_?"

"Seems to be the done thing," Hiro replied, sheathing his sword. "But who ever wanted normality, anyway? Why don't you tell us what you need, cat burglar?"

"Prison raid," she said succinctly. "Bronx holding pen, tonight. You two in?"

They exchanged glances. "Um," Peter said.

"We're busy," Hiro finished lamely.

Her brows flew down over her exotic slanted eyes. "You don't have to make excuses, it's not a freaking Sadie Hawkins dance," she said acidly. "If you've no longer got the spine for it, then just tell me that."

"_Really_," Peter insisted, unsure why it was so important for him to explain. "We're on this huge time-traveling project, saving the world and stuff."

"Anyway, I thought the Crusades had ended," Hiro said with a frown. "I thought we—well, we _lost_, didn't we? Isn't all that stuff over now?"

"It's never over," she said, sharp features carving away at the moonlight, strong mind strong body. "Who do you think is going to fight for us, if we don't? We owe it to look after our own."

"We come in shades of gray same as other folks," Peter said bluntly, "and they bleed as red as we do. Are you sure you're not saving those that are better behind bars?" There was the difference, Hiro realized. This was they key to the new Peter: shades of gray, and the ability to see them. He now saw with the eyes of realism, knew about low roads and lesser-of-two-evils. Life was no longer a storybook but a nonfiction, and Peter no longer tried to be the shining white night. It was a maturity thing—a survival thing.

"They've got Claire," Sparrow said, and instantly all rational high-minded argument was shattered, spiderwebbed with cracks of pure blind panic.

"Claire?" Peter said, taking an involuntary step forward. "What? When? How do you know?"

She smiled that razor smile again. "I knew that would get your attention. You've still got buttons, Peter Petrelli."

He grabbed her arms, eyes flashing with don't-push-me. "Tell me_now_," he said.

She pulled out of his grip with a balk like a startled pony. "She's been transferred in from Texas. We didn't know they had her until just recently—she was only on the latest roster Hana pulled in, but whatever happened, they're sending her here now. Seems she's a little more than backwoods Texas can handle."

Peter turned to Hiro, agonized indecision. "Hiro—" he started.

"Go," Hiro said, knowing Peter—and Peter's buttons. "Save Claire. The universe can hold for a few hours. I'll just work on Delta timeline while you're gone. Just don't get yourself killed or anything, okay?"

Peter grinned. "I'll try."

And then he was gone, stepping straight out of the window in the way that still made Hiro's instincts scream. He sighed to himself, then closed his eyes and heaved himself outward, slingshotting himself into negative-space unknown.

When he opened his eyes again, he was instantly confused. Even for a time-traveler, the sight of one's own face staring back was a gutwrenching shock—and this time it was worse than usual. Standing directly in front of him was a living mirror image, a black-clad Hiro Nakamura with his hand on his sword-hilt. But that wasn't all: standing to the left, right at the edge of his vision, was _another_ Hiro Nakamura, a second, freestanding identical twin.

His brain tried to process this—choked, spluttered, trying to force his consciousness to accept it—his sanity was folding in on itself, collapsing and accordioning in under the pressure of this new optical non-illusion. This_ is the real danger of time-traveling, _he thought wildly_, not rifts, not accidents, just—_confusion_. Too much of what shouldn't be._

The Hiro to his left glared suspiciously at his for a moment, and then sighed, letting the point of his sword drop down. "Not again," he said.

---

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm still technically on vacation—I couldn't help writing, even though I'm supposed to be relaxing :)—so don't expect anything regular yet. I'll be home in a few weeks, and then I'll go back to a few chapters a week. Thanks for hanging in there!


	6. Delta

"Not again," said the Hiro to his left, frowning ferociously as he sheathed his sword. "I think we've officially broken the universe, H."

"No doubt about it, N," the third Hiro replied, studying him. "_Origato_, Hiro. I bet you wonder what you're doing here."

"Not really," Hiro said, nonplussed. "I--er, what do I call you, other Hiro? I mean, so my mind won't explode?"

"We refer to ourselves as H and N," the Hiro in front of him offered helpfully. "It's kind of stupid, but it helps with the confusion."

"I don't think it's stupid," Hiro reassured. "It reminds me of _Men in Black_."

"Really?" said N, lighting up. "Do you remember the time we called in sick and went to the American Film special at the theatre? We loved it so much that we called in sick the next day, too, and went again--"

"Not really important right now," H cut in. "What do you mean, you don't wonder what you're doing here?"

"Well, I came on purpose," Hiro explained. "I was just trying to get to an alternate universe, any alternate universe."

"Voluntary," N said blankly. "That's new."

"We seemed to have created a bit of a time rift, both of us existing in this universe at once," H explained. "Nothing serious, just a little time-space whirlpool. It attracts Hiros from other universes--sucks them in when they try to teleport, sometimes. We've had as many as six Hiros here at once, it's really annoying."

"Where _is_ here, anyway?" Hiro asked, noticing his surroundings for the first time. They were outdoors, on some kind of plateau overlooking a valley--he could vaguely see some kind of structure below them, fence and buildings.

"We're above the main concentration camp in the Tanana Valley," H informed him solemnly.

"Concentration camp?" Hiro said, startled. "Wait--_I_ know who you are!"

"Of course you do," N said blankly. "I'm you."

"No, no," Hiro explained. "You're the one who came over from the freaky mind-control universe."

"Acually," H said, "that would be me. We've got more important things to discuss, though--I don't know whoat your little field trip here is about, but we were about to launch a raid on the Tanana camp. We could certainly use your help."

"Ditched a raid for a raid," Hiro said ironically, thinking of Peter and Sparrow. "This has got to be karma. All right, I'll help you--as long as you promise to tell me about your history when we're done. What's the plan--are we just going to stop time, or what?"

"Unfortunately not," N explained.

He had just opened his mouth to explain further when he was interrupted by a small _pop_--a few feet behind them, a fourth Hiro had appeared, standing on the edge of the plateau and looking quite irritated.

"_Chikuso!" _he yelled crossly. "Not again!"

Hiro barely recognized himself; this incarnation was eerily like a high-school dream, a sleek and well-dressed Hiro, almost handsome with noticably better hair. If he'd had to describe it, he would have called this person the Hiro that he wished he was.

He had little time to stare--H smiled and uttered a wry "Wrong universe, Hiro," and then he was gone, teleported away to his original destination.

"We get that one a lot," N said sympathetically. "Anyway, as I was saying--unfortunately we can't do the normal, easy time-stop. They've got a bioagent down there that surpresses abilities. It lasts for about thirty minutes, but it only works through direct contact, so it won't affect is unless we touch something."

"But that's easier said than done," H stressed. "They've got it on _everything_--walls, grass, clothes--they've even put it in the prisoners' soap so we can't touch their skin. Agian, this won't block us unless we touch it, but there's so much of it in the camp that it limits our powers down there."

"We can stop time for a few seconds," N shrugged, "and we can take little teleport-hops, about ten feet usually, but nothing huge."

"You get used to it," H said calmly. "It's amazing what you can do in a few seconds. It most comes down to hand-to-hand combat. I assume you know how to use that sword?"

"I do," Hiro answered, touching his hilt reflexively. "What's our target?"

"Claire Bennet," H said, and Hiro gave a short bark of laughter. "What?" he asked suspiciously.

"Nothing. Just--deja vu."

"We believe they've started testing on her, trying to map the genetic source of the abilities. Her healing makes it possible that they might acutally find it this time--which means they'd be able to develop a 'cure'."

"Very bad news," N supplied helpfully. "We can't let them get that far. Also, we like Claire. We want to get her out of there."

"It's very important that we take her out of their hands," H said, with a sideways glare at N. "Secondarily, we would like to break Peter Petrelli out of solitary confinement."

Hiro winced, thinking of extroverted, big-eyed Peter in a gray-and-more-gray cement box. "What, are they testing on him, too?"

"We don't think so. He's just--really really dangerous."

"If they were smart enough to realize that he's got Claire's power, they probably _would--_which is another reason for us to get him out."

"Right," Hiro said. "So--just Peter and Claire, then? I mean, I don't want to sound criticial, but...aren't there a lot of people down there?"

"We can't save everybody," H snapped. "We're doing what we think is right, okay?"

"All right," Hiro said carefully. "Whatever you say."

---

"So," Peter said for the third time, "what are we waiting for?"

Sparrow lowered her binoculars, slowly turned to him, and gave him a smile so large that he knew she was annoyed. "We're waiting for dark," she explained pleasantly.

Peter looked pointedly at their surroundings--they were lying on top of a building overlooking the squat concrete Bronx Detention center--and waved a hand in front of her face. "It's _dark_," he said.

Audrey, stretched out on his other side, gave him a swift if-looks-could-kill glare. "It's not that dark--I can see the guards moving down there. You know--the ones who are going to shoot us if you don't shut up?"

Peter ground his teeth in unhealthy frusteration, convincing himself that mudering him best friend's girlfriend was a bad idea. It was driving him mad, to know exactly where Claire was, to sit five hundred feet away from her and to do _nothing _aboutit. It made him fidgety and restive, snappish--he wanted to _move_, he wanted to do something with his swiftly-cramping muscles. "Here's a question," he said. "If you wanted it to be dark, why didn't you just wait until dark, instead of sitting around doing nothing for several hours?"

"It's called 'surveillance', Peter," Audrey said tautly.

"It's called 'making sure we don't go charging in unprepared like you would do if you were in charge of this mission', Peter," added Sparrow.

Peter had had enough--there was no patience in him anymore, no helpful sweetness. That had all crisped to ash with the bomb, and in its place was nothing but a residual cleverness, glassy sarcasm and a smart mouth. Though he would never have admitted it himself, there was an easy label for what he'd become: he'd turned into Nathan.

He crawled out from between Audrey and Sparrow, unwilling to stay even for Sparrow's long eyelashes and longer legs. There were very few poeple he was willing to put up with these days, and neither woman had yet qualified for his time. "Hana," he called quietly. "Come hang out with Rambina and G.I. Jane over here, you actually know what they're talking about."

Hana had the grace to switch him spots without question, understanding more than most the limits of Peter's good humor. He wriggled in between Micah Sanders and Zane Taylor, hoping they would grate on him less and aware that he was about out of options.

"Hey, kid, what are you doing out of school?" he said sternly, nudging Micah with his elbow. Micah grinned up at him, poking him back--it was a running gag between them, and Micah was still easy to get a smile from.

"Wouldn't go to those damn schools even if it was safe," he said glibly. "All they teach now is government programs. I wish there was a school just for people like us, you know?"

"Someday," Peter said reassuringly. Another old tradition--the one where he lied and Micah pretended to believe him. It came easily for Micah, who had an extensive background of half-successful adult shielding--less easily for Peter. "Things will get better."

On his other side, Zane made a loud sound of disbelief. Peter shot him a friendly glare, not wanting to start a fight, but wishing, as he sometimes did, that he could punch Zane in they eye. Actually, Zane could be very pleasant sometimes--smart, funny, personable--but he was prone to violent mood swings, and Peter could tell just by watching him, melting patterns into the the iron beams, that this was not one of his good days. Of course, he'd had a lot to lose--a rising music career, a fiancee, a family, a record deal. Then the Linderman Act had hit, and everything had melted away, life come crashing down on him hard enough to bruise and break. Peter certainly knew about that--about the phantom pains, the bone-deep injuries that never quite healed, went septic inside you and burned out out like a fever.

He sympathized--he really did. But that didn't mean he had to like the guy.

"This is not going to work," Zane intoned, slight stutter masked by his dead-weight melancholy. He didn't look up, melting lines into the railing with his finger.

"Thank you, Mr. Sunshine," Peter said brightly. "Why don't you go tell that to our three Amazon warriors over there? They're really good about criticism."

Zane's lips curled away in an irritated snarl, unable as always to keep the sarcasm from hitting him. There--now he'd started something. _I might as well have just punched him_, Peter thought tiredly. _Way to set an example for Micah._

Hana interrupted the potential Zane-Taylor blowup by poking him sharply in the knee, face serious, flat and bronze as a statue. "Cool it, Taylor," she said crisply. "It's time."

---

It was hardly Hiro's first raid—in the first few years after the bomb, he had practically been Batman, saving beleaguered specials until he literally dropped from exhaustion.

This was different; he could feel it from the outside, the lethal seriousness of the barbed-wire fence, the bone-deep misery like old bruises. This was a _prison camp_, the kind he'd only heard about in history books. This was death on the rocks with some very hard vodka; this was soul-choking depravity, it was never-supposed-to-happen-again and how-could-we-do-this-to-each-other. At the same time, Hiro was managing to be both grimly happy and deeply regretful that he'd ever volunteered to help.

"Ready?" H murmured, breath condensing on the metal fence in front of them. The guard had just passed them, and now it was a matter of seconds—counting—counting—"_Go_!"

Hiro closed his eyes and shoved himself outward, instantly surprised at how difficult it was—like trying to force his body through newly-poured cement. Space and time seemed to be clinging to him, gummy, unyielding—but he had a purpose, and he punched through the resistance like cardboard, opened his eyes—and then he was in the camp.

---

Peter had forgotten how good this felt—sliding through corridors on the balls of his feet, invisibly here and gone, cat burglars. He used to love the adrenalin rush it gave him, the heart-in-mouth thrill of possible discovery, disaster, death. Other people went skydiving. Peter Petrelli broke into federal prisons.

Sparrow padded past him just close enough to brush his skin, bending herself into a corner with the grace of a former dancer. She pressed her palm against the granite until it stuck, holding fast as she leaned the rest of her body around into the next hallway, checking for danger.

"We're clear," she told the rest of them, five people fanned out in the hall behind her.

"Well, you're just all _kinds_ of useful, aren't you, Spidergirl?" Peter whispered as he moved past her, only half-meaning the teasing in the taut tension of the moment.

"We're coming up on high security," Audrey said in her cop-patented soft-but-carrying voice. "Micah, I need you up here to disable the entry locks."

Peter moved shoulder-to-shoulder with Hana, fairly prickling with unease as he scanned the halls for guards. This was too easy—

The instant the thought formed in his mind, Murphy's law leapt into action, lights coming on in a single blinding instant, buzzing overhead fluorescents and flashlights burning their vision back to yellow stripes. Peter's muscles contracted, charged with the cockroach's instinct to run, to skitter somewhere out of the light that was pouring in. For an instant, skittering seemed like a good option—but of course, they were already surrounded, gun-to-gun with familiar black uniforms.

"Stand down!" commanded a familiar voice—and sure enough, Matt Parkman was behind one of the guns. Peter saw Audrey go taut as a violin string, hyperaware of his presence. "Get on the floor, _now_!"

The three women were hand-signaling furiously at each other, obviously having no intention of getting on the floor, but Peter had never understood their codes. On the other hand, Micah was frozen and Zane looked ready to do something stupid, and _someone_ was going to notice them flashing signals like a sign-language convention. It was time for a distraction.

"Hey," he said loudly. "Paul Walker! Good to see you, buddy!" The man to Matt's left frowned at him, annoyed to be called out. He was tallish and normal-looking, but his hands were spreading ice, and Peter mentally flagged him as dangerous. "Your daughter knows about this, right? You ever bring Molly to work?"

"Shut up!" Parkman yelled. "And you three, I _know_ what you're thinking! You try it and I will put a _bullet_ in your _head_! _Stand down_!"

"What do you think, guys?" Peter said quietly, easily. "Are we gonna stand down?" He looked over his shoulder and saw them falling into ready stances, expressions turning to game-face focus, and he smiled. "I didn't think so."

---

Hiro's aim was a little off, thrown by the pressure of the bioagent—he had managed to appear exactly in the middle of a cluster of guards.

The men stared at him for a moment, surprised, giving Hiro time to recover, to pull out his sword. But these were Gamma-universe men, used to impossibilities, and nothing could throw them for low. They burst into action just as Hiro began to swing his sword, grabbing for guns and radios, exploding into emergency mode with enough noise to blow his cover. Hiro slashed one of them across the chest, opening a huge diagonal wound, and then whirled and kicked a second guard's legs out from under him. He heard guns cocking all around him and knew that he wasn't in the best position, so he quickly shut his eyes and forced himself as far as he could, ending up in a near-collision with H a few feet away.

"That went well," H snarled. "Deal with these jokers and catch up with us, we're heading for the main complex!"

Then he was gone, teleport-hopping across the open ground. Hiro heard shouting behind him, huge searing searchlights snapping on—a siren started up in the distance, wailing like an angry ghost. He heaved a sigh, turned around, and went to deal with the problem.

---

Peter had to take a quick step back to avoid being splashed with the stream of molten metal that had once been a gun, pouring down the arms of the security guard he'd been just about to attack. He shot a quick glance behind him and Zane gave him a thumbs-up, much happier now that he was in action, and Peter managed a quick smile of thanks. He ignored the guards' frantic cries of pain, ducking under his flailing arms to land a solid punch to the man's temple, laying him out on the concrete floor. Peter jumped neatly over him and moved on to the next cluster of guards, soon finding himself fighting back-to-back with Hana.

"Hey!" he called over the noise of the fight, grabbing a man and throwing him into the wall with sickening force. "How's it going?"

"Not so hot," she yelled back. "Ah! Damn!" Her whole leg was encased in spreading ice, a sucker shot from a passing Paul Walker.

Peter ducked below a line of bullets and dropped to the floor, flame-thawing her leg fast enough to singe her black jeans. "Thanks!" she said as he straightened. "Look, you've got to get Claire--we're pinned down, you're going to have to do the invisible thing and get her out yourself!"

"Can do," he replied, tossing two guards back with a last, furious burst of telekinesis, then sliding out of the fray as his fingers began to go see-through.

He weaved in and out of the chaotic hallway, stopping only once to grab Micah's wrist and drag him along. "It's me," he said before the boy could get too panicked. "I'm going for Claire, and I can't get in to her without you. Don't worry, nobody can see us. Just—_run_."

---

Hiro didn't have much trouble locating H and N—he simply had to follow the trail of bleeding bodies they left behind. He caught up to them at a bland gray building, the color of cement, possibly even _made _of cement. H was busily chopping away at the door locks, but N gave him a smile as he ran up.

"There you are," he said. "We have to hurry—they've put the alarms on, and it won't take them long to figure out what we came for."

"Done!" H yelled as the door lock fell away, clanking against the hard-packed dirt. "This is it!"

The door swung open, revealing a small, gray room and a hunched figure who was not small, and not blonde, and definitely not Claire Bennet.

"This is not it," N said.

---

Peter practically threw Micah into the door, all momentum and rush. "Come one, come on," he urged as Micah fumbled with the keypad. "Working on it," Micah said tersely, both palms flat on the keys, his eyes slitted with concentration.

Noises from the fight spilled up the hallway, closer now and more frenetic. Peter turned to face the echoes, throwing a hand out to the unconscious guard that had been unlucky enough to get in their way. The man's semi-automatic leapt from his grip into Peter's outstretched hand, and Peter swung it up with the practiced ease of one who knew how to use it.

There was a small click of release behind him, and Micah sprang back from the opening door. _Claire_, his brain shouted, and he bolted into the room.

---

"_Peter_?" Hiro gasped, barely recognizing the figure in the cell. He had the same jawline, the same Italian bones and crooked mouth—but there, all resemblance ended. This Peter was dangerously thin and tired, eyes gaping pits of surrendered will. His skin looked almost gray, sucked of color by the concrete walls, and his limbs hung loosely as if broken, devoid of all energy.

His head came up when the door opened, and a series of emotions flashed over his face like a filmstrip—surprise, fear, disbelief—and then something like happiness. "What—" he gasped, dragged to his feet by his own surprise.

"_Peter_," N said with potent relief, crossing the small cell to pull his old friend into a hug.

"No—!" It came from three throats simultaneously, a warning unconsciously torn out of them, but too late. Peter backpedaled away from N, but already N's jaw had brushed against his skin, so carefully booby-trapped with neurotoxin.

N realized it at once, pulling back with a cry of dismay. "H!" he yelled, pained. "I forgot, I didn't—"

But it had been too long already, and the guards were circling around the small cell, bullets bouncing off the doorjamb, lights shining in the windows. No more time, and especially not for mistakes.

"Abort," H said swiftly, pushing Hiro into the cell and swinging the door closed to block the gunfire. "We need to get out of here, now!"

"What about Claire?" Hiro protested.

"There's no time," H said coldly. "We need to leave while we still can. N is power-blocked, you grab him and I'll take Peter. It's going to be hard to make a big enough jump to get us out of here, but you need to try to just push through. Take two hops if you need to. Now let's _go_!"

Hiro had a last guilty though of blond curls and a happy teenage smile—then he sighed, grabbed N's arm, and made the jump.

---

Peter collided head-on with Claire, sprinting out of her cell as they tried to run in, fully prepared to take down whoever was in her way. They crashed together hard, and she recovered first, grabbing his coat and spinning him against the wall. There was a split second of pause—then recognition.

"_Peter_," she exhaled, releasing his jacket and throwing her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder. "Peter—oh God, Peter—I just heard the door open and I thought I'd try—I can't believe it's _you_—"

"That's my girl," he said, with a smile despite the battle roaring closer every second. "Come on, we've got to get out, they ambushed us and I don't know if we can hold."

Trailing her and Micah behind him, he turned into the hallway—and found himself staring down the barrel of a gun, the cool metal coming to press against his forehead. The arm holding the gun was clad in a Defense uniform, and the arm belonged to Matt Parkman.

He smirked. "Come on," he said. "Did you really think it would be that easy?"

And then suddenly, there was a gun pressed to _Matt's_ head, coming from nowhere with a voice that Peter recognized. "It never is," said Mr. Bennet.


	7. Alpha: Prison Break

Matt Parkman wanted to scream. It had all been going so well—the trap sprung perfectly, six terrorists snapped up inside it. True, they'd been putting up a fierce fight, but he'd expected that—from _these_ fugitives, he would have been disappointed with less of a struggle. This was meant to be his big catch, headlining names like Hana Gitelman and Sparrow Redhouse, a pretty package to give to the President and the quietly dying country. He'd set up Claire Bennet as his infallible bait, extraditing her from Texas because he'd known that if he had her, people would come running. The elusive Peter Petrelli—he'd even had hopes of Noah Bennet, he'd heard the old bastard was in town. And sure enough, here he was—with a gun to Matt's head, no less.

He felt the metal of the gun press against his head, and he swallowed hard, getting his furious frustration under control. This was not how it was supposed to work. He kept his gun pointed at Peter, not letting the standoff drop—there had to be some way to fix this.

"Claire, get behind me," Mr. Bennet commanded in his steady, calming voice. Here it was in action, the principle he'd banked on. Everyone came back for Claire. Everyone protected her. It was a law of the universe. "Drop your weapon," Mr. Bennet demanded.

"Not gonna happen," Matt growled, looking straight down his gun sight. Where was the rest of his team? Surely they should have subdued the others by now! "I can pull my trigger just as quickly as you can, Bennet. You know I'll do it."

"Just one more body for you, right, Parkman?" Mr. Bennet said dismissively, but he was thinking _dammit__. He's right, there's no way out of this_, so Matt knew he wasn't about to pull one of his tricks.

He should have been listening to others more closely—or perhaps he was too caught up in his 'save the cheerleader' mindset (he still remembered that phrase, remembered when he'd heard it, remembered the other half, 'save the world' and how the world didn't get saved) to think that she might do anything but stand around and be saved. In any case, he only caught the end of a thought, a female mind-voice saying _not if I can help it_, and then Claire was darting forward, shoving herself between Peter and the barrel of the gun.

Matt saw the movement first with his blazing-speed cop instincts, but just because they were quick didn't mean they were good; his finger squeezed involuntarily and he shot her straight in the chest, knocking her backwards into Peter with blood blossoming on her grey inmate uniform like a buttonhole carnation. The instincts, traitorously, now froze his body up, not registering that she was fine or that she could heal but only that he'd shot her, pretty fragile Claire with blood pumping out. While he was still recovering, Mr. Bennet hit him from the side, knocking the gun out of his hand and shoving him forward, stumbling near the open cell. Matt read the idea in Bennet's head as it lit up his consciousness, and he turned to stop him, hands coming up, but there was nothing that could stop Bennet when his daughter was bleeding on the floor. The man hit him like a ton of bricks, catapulting him backwards into the cell, and the last thing Matt saw was Micah's hand on the keypad before the door swung shut.

---

Peter, Micah, and Noah Bennet stood in an anxious semicircle around Claire, mourners at a temporary funeral. They all knew very well that she was fine—that the bullet in her chest meant less than a papercut, that any minute she would get up and walk away—it was just waiting for that minute that was stressful. Finally, she lurched into a sitting position like a zombie from a grave, coughing violently, and they all began to breathe again. Mr. Bennet dropped to his knees and hugged her like she was literally back from the dead, getting blood all over his shirt. "Don't you ever do anything like that again, young lady," he scolded as he pulled her up.

"_Dad_," she breathed, saying the word in a way that made it sound like another word entirely, like 'safe' and like 'thank God'. "What are you doing here?"

"You don't think I still check up on you, Claire Bear?"

"He did better than us at the whole break-in thing," Peter complained, pulling Claire in for a hug of his own, "and he doesn't even _have_ superpowers."

Steps clattered down the hallway, and Peter and Noah snapped back into instant-protection mode, shielding Micah and Claire with their bodies. But it was not enemies but allies coming around the corner, renegade heroes flushed with battle and blood. "_There_ you are," Audrey said as they came into view. She frowned in confusion at the sight of Noah, then decided on a polite, "Bennet. Good to see you. We can talk later—Micah, we need you." Then, "Hello, Claire," as an afterthought.

"Glad you got her out," Hana said more sincerely. "I need you to work with me for a minute—can you help me tell the computers to unlock all the doors?"

Peter had a sudden vision of hundreds of stampeding, superpowered frightened people. "Hey, I'm going to get Claire out of here before you guys pull _The Great Escape_, okay? I assume there are no more security guys down this way?" he said, already pulling her down the hall.

Sparrow smirked. "Please. They should have called the National Guard."

There was a loud banging noise from the solitary confinement cell, and everyone's eyes and guns snapped to the locked door. "What's that?" Zane said nervously, hand pressed against a bleeding shoulder wound.

Mr. Bennet gave a terse, contained grin. "That," he said with satisfaction. "Is Matt Parkman."

Flashing grins all around, three seconds for amusement in the midst of the tension—then back to business. As the remaining five began to cluster, ready to complete their mission, Peter and the Bennets moved off down the hall, stepping carefully over bodies as they crossed the now-silent penitentiary. They reached a door, and Peter quickly put a hand to it, melting away the doorknob and hinges so that it swung crazily open, night air rushing in and the sight of the stars. Claire shivered at the unfamiliar sweep of the wind, but she stepped outside into the grass eagerly, her eyes alight. She would trade goosebumps for freedom any day.

---

Peter burst into The Loft like a firecracker, happy to be home, glowing with success. There was something about Claire that made him light up inside; she was like the sun. Without her, he was sullen and crabby and morbid—with her, he was good and heroic, a role model. She made him live up to himself—she reminded him what he was fighting for. Sometimes he was jealous of Mr. Bennet. He wished very much that Claire was his daughter—sometimes, he could almost pretend that she was. She was so intensely _good_, so bright and young and brave. His instincts blazed to her, Claire Bennet, his niece, his blood. Claire Bennet, who he was proud of, who he loved. Claire Bennet, who was safe now.

Hiro's head popped up from below the staircase, strings and papers in his hand and a cross expression on his face. "Where have you been?"

"Saving people," Peter said blissfully, jumping the last two steps.

Hiro heaved a very small sigh. Old Peter was back again—Nurse Peter, Hero Peter, the one who was cheerful and well-meaning and naïve and slightly dense. This version of his friend made cameo appearances every once in awhile, bursting through the thick veneer of bitterness and danger. Old Peter was certainly more fun to be around, more likable and less angry, but when Hiro was in a mood like he was now, he found himself wanting to slap him. "That's great," he said as neutrally as he could manage.

"Yeah, yeah it is," Peter said obliviously, ducking under the Beta timeline. "So how'd the universe thing go?"

"Depressing," Hiro said shortly. "I'm almost done mapping this line, and after I finish I think we should leave again."

Peter snorted. "You kidding? I just pulled a full-blown prison raid, and I don't even _know_ what you did. I think we need a break, yeah?"

"We don't have _time_ for a break, Peter."

"Time?" Peter said, surprised at the anger in Hiro's voice. "All we've _got_ is time, buddy, we can stop it, we can start it, we can change anything."

"Some things can't be changed," Hiro said blackly. "There are people dead back in 2007, remember them? They're waiting on us to save them, and for your information, there are people in the _other_ universes who could use a little saving, too."

"Hiro, these people aren't even—I don't know, they're sort of not _real_, aren't they?" Peter said, waving his hands expressively.

"Do you know who I saved in the universe I just came from?" Hiro said, finally exploding, dropping the string and poking his finger into Peter's sternum. "I saved _you_, Peter! I pulled you out of a damn _prison camp_, you were almost _dead_! You just sat there and stared into the distance, didn't talk to anyone, barely noticed you were alive, didn't even _want _to be! A _prison camp_, Peter!"

Peter's bubble popped. He felt himself deflate like a punctured balloon, lead-weighted by encroaching reality. A still grayness settled over him like fog, smothering out all thoughts of sunshine Claire. A memory forced itself into his mind, looping over and over—the sight of a mushroom cloud, a huge ravenous explosion that bit into New York, burned people to ash right before his eyes. Scorched flesh and screaming.

"Okay," he said, backing away from Hiro with his eyes on the floor. "Okay, you're right. I get it."

Suddenly Hiro felt very guilty—what was he doing, smashing Peter's too-fragile happiness? This was the first time he'd seen Peter smile in months; he wasn't smiling anymore. _I am a terrible friend_. "Look—" he said awkwardly.

"It's fine," Peter said too quickly. "Really. Um, let me help you with that."

He reached for the string on the floor, face unreadable, Old Peter gone completely. Hiro thought about pressing the issue, but he couldn't think of any way to resolve it. He decided to let it drop.

--

"Ready?" Hiro said from across the room.

"Ready," Peter said. And he meant it.

"See you soon," Hiro said. "_Go_."

They closed their eyes and disappeared.

---

Hiro opened his eyes to a truly horrifying sight—worse than the prison camp, worse than the George Orwell universe, a thousand million times worse than anything his own dimension had to offer.

His surroundings were familiar: the graceful graystone roof of the Deveaux building, overlooking the as-yet-undestroyed New York skyline. It was not the roof that was the problem—it was the people on the roof. Peter and Claire were standing near the edge—they were holding hands—they were smiling soppily at each other—they were leaning in for a kiss.

"No!!!" Hiro screamed, throwing himself across the roof. "No, stop! Don't do that!"

---

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I've got everything sorted out, so the chapters should be coming regularly now. Thanks to everyone for waiting, and thank you so much for your reviews! You have no idea how much they mean to me :)


	8. Epsilon

"No!" Hiro screamed, throwing himself across the roof. "No, stop! Don't do that!"

Peter and Claire jumped apart, alarmed at the sight of a short Japanese man with a samurai sword charging at them. It occurred to Hiro at the last second that they might not understand why he appeared to be attacking them, but Peter had already jumped the gun. Just as Hiro got within reach of them (he wasn't sure what he intended to do, actually—perhaps throw his body selflessly between them to save them from the dangers of inbreeding), he felt an invisible force shove him hard in the chest, tossing him back across the roof. He rolled with the fall and sat up wincing, glaring at Peter, who was glaring back with his body angled protectively in front of Claire.

"Okay, that probably wasn't the best way to handle that," he admitted, rubbing the back of his head where it had struck stone. "You just—really shouldn't kiss her, Peter."

"Do I _know_ you?" Peter said angrily, looking quite ready to throw him again.

"Um," Hiro said. Another thing he hadn't stopped to consider. "Good question."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Claire said guardedly.

"Look," he said, seeing no good way to explain this. "I'm from an alternate universe, so you may not recognize me. Do you know a Hiro Nakamura?"

"We don't know anyone by that name," Peter told him, putting a protective arm around Claire, more suspicious every second.

"Okay," Hiro said, standing slowly with his hands up, trying to regroup. "That's not important. Never mind. Just please believe me when I tell you that this girl is your niece, and you really, _really_ shouldn't kiss her!"

"My _niece_?" Peter said, disgusted. "Look, buddy, if this is supposed to be a joke, it's really not funny. In fact, it's kind of making me want to punch you."

_Bad_, Hiro thought. _Bad, bad, bad! There is just no graceful way to say this, is there?_ "Your name is Claire Bennet," he said to the blond woman. "Your adoptive father is Noah Bennet, and your real father is—"

"My adoptive father is Charles Deveaux," Claire said sharply.

This threw Hiro. _How…?_ he thought to himself. _Something got _very_ mixed up in this universe. _"That's about enough of that," Peter said firmly. "Mr. Nakamura, I think you should leave now."

"Peter," Claire said in an odd voice. She was holding something in her hand that looked like a cell phone, which was now beeping softly. "Peter," she said again. "He's one of them."

"Huh," Peter said, studying the screen. Then he turned, pulled out his taser gun, and shot Hiro in the chest.

---

"You're kidding, right?" Claire said incredulously, arms crossed across her chest.

"Nope," Peter replied with a grin. "I carried him into the car, you get to carry him out."

They both looked thoughtfully at their captured harasser, unconscious in the backseat of Peter's red sedan. "That's not very chivalrous," she said sternly.

He smiled wider. "Haven't you heard? Nineteenth Amendment, women are equal now. I believe there's actually a specific clause about joint division of captive-carrying labor."

"On the off chance that you're not joking," Claire said, slyly sidling up to him, "how can I convince you to carry him for me?"

He bent his head down to her until their faces were inches apart, brushing noses like a grade-school Eskimo kiss. "I can think of a few ways," he murmured. She smiled slowly and leaned in for a kiss—and then stopped, frozen—and pulled away. "What is it?" he asked, puzzled.

"I don't know," she said, running a hand compulsively through her hair. "It's stupid, I just—keep thinking about what that guy said."

"What, that we're related?" Peter said with a raise of his eyebrow. "Come on, Claire, he was completely crazy, you can't think about the stuff he said."

"I guess not," Claire said, but she still didn't kiss him—she turned to the car and grabbed Hiro's boots, dragging his unconscious body out of the backseat.

"Whoa," Peter said. "I was kidding about making you carry him, babe."

"I can do it," she said stubbornly, pulling him upright and wrapping an arm around his shoulders, nearly collapsing but trying not to show it.

Silently, Peter slipped his arm around Hiro's other side, and together they carried Hiro Nakamura into Primatech Paper.

---

Peter's first hint that something wasn't right was the look on Thompson's face—surprise and confusion, concern. "Something wrong?" he said, hoping the answer would be 'no'—their capture was still unconscious, but that would only last another ten minutes or so. They needed to get him checked in, not stop and chat with Thompson, who Peter frankly disliked at the best of times. Claire hissed under her breath as Thompson walked toward them, tired of holding Hiro up and equally unappreciative of their gray-haired boss.

"Yes, there's something wrong," Thompson said immediately. "What are you doing?"

"Just bringing in a catch," Claire said steadily. "It's kind of our job."

"This is Hiro Nakamura!" Thompson said angrily, as if that explained everything.

Claire and Peter exchanged a look. "Should that mean something to us?" Peter said carefully.

"This is the son of Kyto Nakamura!" Thompson explained exasperatedly. "He's a board member, heads the whole company east of the U.K.! You can't kidnap his son!"

"Well, he's a Special," Claire offered defensively.

"So are you," Thompson shot back. "There are exceptions, of course, and this is a big one."

Under the support of their arms, Claire and Peter began to feel small stirrings and twitches, Hiro coming back to consciousness. Without thinking, Peter stepped quickly away from Hiro, and his semi-conscious body overbalanced at once, tipping him straight over onto Claire. There was a small distressed squeak as she collapsed under his weight, but he was already jumping up, sword clearing its sheath with a whisper of leather-on-metal. Peter jumped back in alarm, startled at this threatening behavior but too used to boss's-kid privilege to try to stop him.

"Whoa there, Hiro," Thompson said soothingly. "This has all been a huge mistake, and we're very sorry. There's nothing to be afraid of from us."

_Okayyyy_, Hiro thought slowly to himself, not lowering his sword. He just could not get the hang of this universe—one minute, he was being tasered by Peter Petrelli and the next, a high-ranking Company official was sucking up to him. It wasn't making any sense. "Where am I?" he asked, carefully testing the waters.

"Primatech Paper, New York branch," Thompson told him. "We apologize for the mixup, Hiro—just some overenthusiastic agents, no harm done." He glared at Peter over Hiro's shoulder, who made an expressive 'What?' gesture back at him. "Why don't you two find something useful to do?" he snapped at Peter and Claire. "Claire, your sister needs help in the records room—don't worry, it doesn't require any intellegence or _judgement_."

Peter had his mouth open for a smart remark, but Claire pulled him away, rolling her eyes. "Do _not_ get into it with him," she murmured. "We're the ones who screwed up, remember?"

"That guy bugs the hell out of me," Peter complained. "He's got that _smile_, like he's talking to a six-year-old, you know?"

"I know, honey," Claire said patiently, pushing the door open to the Records Department. She hoped Simone would be able to calm him down—she was usually good at that, her and Peter got along so well. "Simone!" she called, unable to locate her adoptive sister from behind the rows of filing cabinets.

"Here!" came a voice from the far wall, and her sister's curly head popped into view. Another person stood up as well, and began walking toward them—Bennet, easily recognizable with his broad shoulders and horn-rimmed glasses.

"Claire, Peter," he said perfunctorily as he passed them on his way to the door.

"Bennet," Claire replied automatically, but she couldn't take her eyes off him after she'd looked, stared at him like an idiot as he moved toward the exit.

He noticed. "Something wrong, Claire?" he asked sardonically.

A voice slid into her head, a recent memory: _Your name is Claire Bennet. Your father is Noah Bennet_. She looked at his rigid shoulders, his scarred hands, his white shirt with a tiny spot of blood on the cuff—his greystone cold eyes behind the mirrored glass. _No_, she decided. _There's no way he could be _anyone's_ father. __He's barely even _human. "No," she told him calmly. "There's nothing wrong."

---

"I have to say, I'm surprised to see you, Hiro," Thompson said as they moved down the hallway.

Hiro was only half paying attention to him, furiously taking in the facility, its stainless steel and cinderblocks. "Um, yeah," he said vaguely. "Well, here I am!"

"Kyto mentioned you at the last board meeting."

_Great,_ Hiro thought, _something I'm expected to know about_. "Oh," he improvised. "How were, the, uh…the boys?" he finished lamely.

"Generally well. Charles and Claude are both struggling with their health, but it's nothing serious. They will recover." And just as Hiro thought his bluff had gone through, he continued. "Kyto said you'd had a fight."

_Huh_. _If he's with the Company in this universe, I'm not surprised_. "It wasn't that bad," he tried, hoping for a successful misdirection. This conversation was rapidly turning to topics he knew nothing about, and he wasn't sure how long his bluffing would hold out—Peter was much better at this kind of deception, smiling in the way that Nathan had taught him, selling hooks, lines, sinkers.

"That's not what he told me," Thompson said, still smiling that obnoxious superior smile. "He told me it was _very _bad."

"Well—" Hiro tried to correct, but Thompson was not done.

"In fact, he said it was _so_ bad that you'd run off," he said smoothly, and Hiro began to feel the first flutters of imminent disaster. "He told me he hadn't seen you for weeks. He told me," pause, "to call him if I knew where you were."

They had stopped walking and were frozen in the hallway, facing each other, anticipating showdown. "You don't need to do that," Hiro said, and his mind was screaming, _no, you can't let him call, they'll know it's not you!_

Thompson slid his skinny black phone out of his pocket. "I'm afraid I do, Hiro."

Hiro made a split-second decision and then he moved, taking a step forward and punching Thompson straight in the jaw. The man wasn't expecting it—he stumbled back into the wall and the phone flew out of his hand. Hiro brought his heel down on it, smashing it into satisfying small pieces, but Thompson was a Company employee and he didn't go down for long. Hiro felt Thompson grab his arm and twist it around behind his back—he reached behind him and got a handful of Thompson's shirt and flipped him straight over his shoulder, throwing him into the wall.

_Time to get out of here_, he thought, and as he closed his eyes he saw Thompson pulling out a gun, aiming it out at him. He closed his eyes and shoved himself away, and as the blackness folded in around him, he heard the pop of gunfire, then a sudden sharp angry pain in his chest. Hiro knew instantly what it was; he'd been shot before. He felt blood pumping hot from his chest, and he saw The Loft flash before him like a fever-dream, and he couldn't seem to hold it, it was sliding away, and then everything was sliding away, and then there was only black.


	9. Zeta: The Kids Are Alright

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sorry about the delay!! My muse has me sleeping on the couch--writing this chapter was like pulling teeth, no joke. I'm currently working through a block the size of Montana, so I apologize if things come a little slower for awhile. Thanks for everyone who reviews, you have no idea how much they mean to me! Special thanks to SkyRogue for letting me bounce ideas--I never would have gotten through the chapter w/o you! Anyway, thanks for your patience. Here's what I've got:

---

Peter recognized the room immediately, its whiteboards and neat lines of desks—after all, it had only been a decade or so since he'd been in high school himself. The familiarity of it was comforting to him, who had come to expect danger and confusion from these new universes. The only alarming part of this schoolroom was the people in it: quiet rows of teenage students staring at him with wide eyes and open mouths, defying him to explain his sudden appearance.

He turned to his left and saw another startling face—Mohinder Suresh (an older and more realistic Mohinder Suresh, but unmistakably him) was sitting on the desk, goggling like he'd seen a ghost. The whiteboard marker dropped out of his nerveless hand and clattered rather loudly in the silence, Mohinder's mouth working soundlessly, shocked, stunned.

"Peter?" he managed finally. "_Peter Petrelli?_"

"What?" said someone loudly, a boy in the third row with a sharp jawline and sharper glance.

"Um, let me explain," Peter said hurriedly. They would _have_ to think of a better way of introducing themselves into these universes—one of these days they were going to get shot or stabbed, and never even know why.

Mohinder had already leapt off his desk, pulling him into a swift hug. "You're dead," he said. "You were _dead_."

Peter pushed Mohinder gently away, mentally wincing at the reality check he would have to deliver. "I probably still am," he said reluctantly. "Mohinder, I'm not the Peter you knew. I'm from another universe, okay? I teleported in. Do you understand what I mean?"

Mohinder was now gaping for a different reason, backing away, trying to comprehend this second blow. "He understands," said a pretty Asian girl after a moment. "Like my dad." It clicked in an instant for Peter—this was Hiro's daughter—now who was the mother? Judging from big brown eyes and reddish hair, perhaps that Charlie girl Hiro was always on about? Perhaps someone else entirely.

"I believe I understand," Mohinder said abruptly, adjusting his glasses. "String theory, correct? I'd always wondered. Mr. Petrelli, I must continue my class, but if you'll take a seat I'll speak with you after the hour has finished."

He felt a pang of guilt at Mohinder's brusqueness, the pain still in his eyes like Peter had punched him. _That was not very nice_, he said to himself. _But how could I have known that I was _dead_ in this universe? _He moved awkwardly to the side of the room, aware of the childrens' eyes on him, and sat on the windowsill as Mohinder continued his lecture—on Physics, as far as he could figure, but he'd never been very good at science. In any case, he wasn't paying attention to the lesson—he was intent on studying the students, trying to unravel the connections of this dimension.

Hiro's daughter, he already knew—Mohinder called her Akane when she answered a question, so he logged her in his mind as Akane Nakamura and moved on. Another easy one: a broad-shouldered, black-haired kid who could only be the son of Matt Parkman. Peter had trouble controlling his prejudices against this boy, especially since he seemed to be a back-of-the-class slacker type, carving slowly away at his desk with a broken pencil sharpener. He reminded himself several times that things in these alternate universes were not always what they seemed, but he still couldn't quite help his own preconceived ideas.

Then there was the boy in the third row—the one who had reacted to his name. This one drove him crazy; he knew he'd seen the kid before, he was so maddeningly familiar and yet different, just different enough to throw him. Then the boy smiled, and it hit him like a thunderclap—and he felt stupid. This was Simon Petrelli. His nephew. No wonder the kid had reacted so violently to his name, no wonder he kept sneaking sidelong glances at the uncle he knew to be dead. It was unnerving to see Simon watching him with those eyes, Nathan's smiling/lying brown eyes that Peter had been so used to until they were gone. He wondered if Nathan was alive in this universe, if he was the same; he wondered if he could see Nathan without completely losing it. He bet himself five bucks that he could do it. He was that kind of guy now.

The sound of a bell shattered his thoughts into a thousand pieces, giving him flashbacks to high school daydreaming, and he leapt convulsively out of his seat. He gave himself a small shake and headed toward Mohinder, feeling awkward, dead-man-walking. Mohinder looked straight past him, calling "Eve! Come here a minute, honey."

A tiny, big-eyed girl sighed audibly and separated herself from the rest of the students, delicate features twisted into a pout. "If I'm not allowed to call you 'Dad' in school, I don't think you should be allowed to call me 'honey'," she complained as she walked up.

He ignored this. "I need you to take Peter to the principal's office, all right?"

"But—" Peter protested without thinking.

"I'm sorry, Peter," Mohinder said, still not looking at him. "I should take you myself, but I just—can't." He finally met Peter's eyes, and his gaze was like a fractured mirror, skewed with shards of pain. "I can't—_see_ you here, Peter—you're _dead_. Do you understand?"

"I understand," Peter assured him quickly, guilt threatening to choke him. He wasn't fixing anything here. He was just making people remember things they shouldn't have had to think about. But—he had to know—"Who killed me?" he asked before he could stop himself.

Mohinder's head came up, startled. "_Killed_ you? Nobody killed you," he said, confused. "You died of a heart attack, Peter."

"Oh," Peter said lamely. "Oh. All right."

"Come on," Eve said briskly. "I'll show you the principal's office."

He studied her on the way out—Mohinder's genes were definitely there, the thick curls of Indian hair, the cinnamon skin, but he couldn't figure out where she'd gotten the pixie features, or those eyes that seemed to take up half her face. "Weird question," he said lightly as they moved into the crowded hall. "Who's your mother?"

"Eden Suresh," Eve said promptly. "Are you _really_ Peter Petrelli?"

_Eden._ It rung a bell, but only a small, quiet one. "I really am," he told her, noticing two boys slipping out of the stream of students, falling in on either side of Eve. One of them was Simon Petrelli, and the other was familiar in a way that told Peter he was probably the other nephew—Monty.

"He's really Peter Petrelli," Eve informed the boys.

Monty stared at him eagerly, earnestly, pushing his hair out of his eyes. "You're our uncle? _How_?"

"He's not really our uncle," Simon said sharply, cutting a glance at Peter. "He's from another _universe_, Monty, he's not _real_."

"Whoa there," Peter said, alarmed at how familiar the tone was. "I'm as real as you are, I just don't happen to live here, all right? I'm not trying to make your life harder, I just want to know some things."

"I don't want you giving my brother ideas," Simon said, less harshly, almost pleading. "He has enough of those already."

"Shut up!" Monty said, pushing his troublesome bangs away again. "I'm not going to _break_, Simon, I'm just curious!" He looked on the verge of tackling his brother, petulant and hormonal—and then suddenly his expression changed, the angry lines smoothing from his forehead. "Oh, whatever."

"You shouldn't use your mood-changing thing on him, Eve," Simon said sternly.

"It was an emergency," she said blithely. "He was going to punch you, or something. He needed to calm down."

"Mr. Grey told us we're not allowed to use our powers in school," Monty complained half-heartedly as they reached a large door.

Simon made a small gesture, and the door flew open of its own accord, swinging out so fast that Peter had to jump back to avoid it. The boy grinned bitingly. "Do you always do what you're told?"

It frankly stunned Peter to see them use their abilities like this, to fling them around like they were nothing, not any kind of secret, not to be hidden. _What kind of a place is this_? He followed the children bewilderedly into the office, trying to make sense of it all, and as they hustled him past the reception area (they were very pushy, these kids—he knew where they'd gotten _that_), he caught a glimpse of the name-placard on the empty secretarial desk. _Claire Petrelli. _

"Claire," he said involuntarily. "Hey, wait! This girl Claire, where is she?"

"She's not in," Eve explained authoritatively. "She's on sick leave, but she's probably faking. One time," she said, voice low and conspiratorial, "we pretended to be sick and she took me to the _movies_." An impish grin. "She likes me _way_ better than her brothers."

"She just feels _sorry_ for you," Monty teased. "She only hangs out with you because she's your _godmother_."

"Whatever," Eve sniffed. "Okay, um…this is Mr. Grey's office. Good luck, I guess."

"Yeah," Peter said. "Thanks. Nice to meet you!" He called it at her retreating back, and she waved two fingers in response, apparently _way_ too busy to stick around babysitting him any longer. He gave a small, amused smile at her nonchalant coolness, fond memories of high school and how talking to people at exactly the right times was far more important than time-travelers from alternate dimensions.

The Petrelli brothers lingered a moment longer—Monty was looking at him with a strange, wistful expression, curious and thoughtful. Then Simon was pulling him away, and the three disappeared into the hallway. Peter turned back to the opaque glass door, flashing unpleasantly back to other, past visits to the principal's office. He shook his head at his reminiscing—what was this, a midlife crisis?—and he knocked.

When the door opened, Peter's first reaction was, frankly, to freak out. It was Sylar behind the door, sweater-vested and hair-parted but still _Sylar_, and his body reacted accordingly. He scrambled back a few steps, nearly tripping over a chair, his hands bursting flame from instinct, sheer surprise and terror.

"Hey!" Sylar said, sounding alarmed. "Calm down, everything's all right. I'm not going to hurt you!"

Just then, Hiro appeared from nowhere and collapsed in a bleeding heap on the floor.


	10. Zeta: The Kids Are Not Alright

Just then, Hiro appeared from nowhere and collapsed in a bleeding heap on the floor.

Instantly, Sylar was forgotten as Peter stared in horror at his friend, staining the carpet crimson with his blood that was pumping out too fast, too much blood to mean anything good. "Damn it!" he said frantically, dropping to the floor beside his friend, rolling him over to check the damage. "Damn it, Hiro, what the hell?" He had a gunshot wound in his chest—not close enough to be a heart-shot, but judging from the torn way Hiro was breathing, he'd probably punctured a lung and that was bad, way beyond the capabilities of a former nurse. He pushed hard on the wound, desperately trying to stop the bleeding, glancing up for help.

Sylar was already on it, a cell phone to his ear and a concerned look on his face that Peter had never seen from his enemy, a worry so genuine that it confused him. "Yes, hello," he was saying urgently. "We've got a gunshot victim here, Chandrah M. Suresh High School, 1387 Philadelphia Drive. Please hurry, it's very serious—"

Suddenly, the door burst open, Eve, Monty, and Simon drawn back by the noise—they stood frozen, wide-eyed at the bloody carpet and the injured man, and Peter thought _no, they don't need to see this! _"Mr. Grey," Eve was saying in a small voice. "What…"

"Monty, come here," Sylar (or Mr. Grey, he supposed—that was what they seemed to call him here) said in a crisp, no-nonsense tone. Simon looked like he was about to protest, but Monty trotted obediently over, reluctant to come close to Hiro but still doing as he'd been told. Mr. Grey bent down until he was eye-to-eye with the boy, and said, "This man is badly hurt, Monty—we're going to try to get him to the hospital, but we're worried that he might die. Do you think you can help him?"

"You can't ask him to do that," Simon said sharply, stepping forward, but Mr. Grey held up a hand, and the brother was stopped in place by the force of his authority.

"Monty, can you help him?" he repeated.

Monty's face was screwed up, twisted with several different emotions, but determination seemed to be winning. "I'll try," he said.

_What the hell? _Peter was thinking bewilderedly, going crazy from the sound of Hiro's wet, labored breathing, watching as the boy knelt beside him and placed both his hands on Hiro's shuddering chest. He closed his eyes, eyebrows shooting down in a fierce, endearing way, as if trying to force something out of himself. His knuckles went white, pressing so hard that Hiro began coughing, and Peter started to get worried—the boy was shaking, teeth gritted—

Then suddenly he broke contact, falling backwards away from Hiro, ashen-faced and frightened. "I can't," he said miserably. "I'm sorry, I _can't_. It's not working."

Immediately, Simon was at his side, murmuring soothing words, glaring daggers at the rest of them. "It's okay," he said, voice thick with anger. "It's okay, Monty, you don't have to do this." He pulled Monty away over to the side of the room and hugged him, keeping the boy's head tucked into his shoulder, making sure he didn't see Hiro bleeding out on the floor.

The paramedics had finally come, streaming in the door with professional practiced quickness. They crowded around Hiro, blocking him from view, and suddenly Peter was as helpless as everyone else.

---

Peter felt dead. He felt like he'd been sitting here for hours—he _had_ been sitting here for hours, as still as Hiro on the hospital bed. Waiting. Waiting for something to happen, for Hiro to breathe on his own, to sit up and grab his sword and tell Peter to get going, they had work to do—they had to save the world. At this rate, Peter was thinking the world wasn't going to get saved. He wasn't sure he could do it without Hiro. He wasn't sure he knew how.

He'd lost so many people to the place their world had become, to the quiet violent struggles that made up their wars. There had been so many of them before it all began, and now there was just…him and Hiro. And it was about to be just him.

Punctured lung, they'd told him. They'd reinflated it, put him on a respirator, but the tissue wasn't knitting, and there was still blood in his lungs. He was choking. _Complications_, they'd called it, when he demanded to know why they weren't doing more. Hiro was going to die in this clean white hospital, in another _universe_, and he wasn't even going to know it was happening.

"I'm sorry," said a voice behind him, making him jump out of his chair, all paranoid nerves.

It was Mr. Grey (Sylar) behind him, which made him even more nervous, but so far this incarnation of the killer hadn't done anything threatening, so his forced his hackles down. "Don't say that," he said testily. "He's not _dead_, there's nothing to be sorry about."

Mr. Grey didn't seem to take offense at his tone, sitting down on the chair beside Peter. "Mohinder told me you're from a parallel universe. This man—I assume he's Hiro Nakamura, from your dimension?"

Peter couldn't muster up anything past a short "Yes," still watching Hiro as if he thought he might die if he took his eyes away.

"Akane wants to see him, but her dad—our Hiro Nakamura—won't let her," Mr. Grey continued conversationally. "He says they could cause a rift, and I'm no physicist but I'm inclined to agree." A pause. "I'm Gabriel, by the way."

Peter didn't respond, just set his chin on his hands and continued to watch Hiro, watching the monitors beep dully, keeping him alive.

"I'm getting the feeling that, in your universe, I'm not one of the good guys," Gabriel said delicately.

"Not really, no," Peter told him, but just speaking it out loud helped him deal with the Sylar-doppelganger, got it off his chest. "Look, I'm here for a reason—I'm supposed to find out about your dimension so we can map it in a timeline. Would you mind telling me about this school of yours? I've never seen anything like it?"

Gabriel smiled fondly, glancing down at his hands. "The Chandrah Suresh School for Specials," he explained. "Ever read any of the X-Men comics? We got the idea from them, embarrassingly enough."

"Who did?" Peter asked, curious enough to drag his gaze away from his friend. "You and Mohinder?"

"Me and Mohinder's father, Chandrah," Gabriel corrected. "He died just before the school opened, hence the name. He—I guess you could say that he saved me. He took me in just as I was about to die of despair and normality. He told me that I was special."

_But you weren't_, Peter thought. He'd heard this story. Dr. Suresh had found no abilities in Sylar, nothing special about him at all…until the first time he stole someone else's power, smashed their head open and _made_ himself special. He kept the thought to himself—perhaps it was different in this timeline. "He found my ability to—_figure_ things out, to see how they worked, how the pieces fit together. He told me I was just the kind of person he'd been looking for, to help him with his project. They were out there, you see—scared, lonely, growing up with nobody to explain to them what was happening to them. We could help them."

"If you don't mind me asking," Peter said, wondering if this was okay to speak about, wondering why it seemed to be a sensitive subject. "Monty Petrelli? Can he—heal people?"

"Theoretically," Gabriel said with an unhappy smile. "He's got the ability, it's just sort of…stuck."

"Stuck? What do you mean, stuck?" Peter said crossly, imagining Monty laying his hands on Hiro and the color coming back into his friend's face, Hiro sucking in a breath and sitting up—

"Actually, that's sort of your fault," Sylar said sardonically. "When you died—well, let's just say that Nathan wanted his son to fix you, and he couldn't."

"Oh," Peter said lamely, thinking of the pain in Monty's eyes when he couldn't heal Hiro, the flashing protective anger in Simon's. "What about Simon?"

"Simon's just your run-of-the-mill telekinetic," Gabriel explained. "_His_ real ability is protecting Monty from his father."

"He doesn't—" Peter said, appalled.

"He's never touched the boy," Gabriel corrected quickly. "It's not like that. It's just…Nathan hates him for not saving you. He tries not to, and he tries to hide it, but Monty knows. You can see it in his eyes, and in the breakdown of his ability. Ever since your death in this universe, he hasn't been able to heal predictably—I don't know what Monty would do without his brother constantly telling him it's all right."

Peter had his mouth open to say something—he wasn't sure what, perhaps that he was sorry—when suddenly, there was a sound in the hall that made his head snap around, made him jump out his seat and ignore everything else. Nathan. Nathan's voice. Nathan outside in the hall.

Gabriel jumped out his seat as well, grabbing Peter by the arm and dragging him bodily across the room, shoving him down on an unoccupied bed and pulling the curtain shut in front of him. "He _cannot_ see you," Gabriel hissed when he tried to protest. "Do you know what it would do to him? _Stay here_."

Peter gave up and let Gabriel pull the curtain around him, burning with the thought of being feet from his brother and not seeing him, not seeing him alive as he hadn't in years. _What about what it'll do to me_? he complained to himself. _I've sort of got the same situation, don't I?_

He heard the door open, three sets of footsteps coming in, and he tucked his feet up to the frame of the bed, dutifully hiding from his brother despite the fact that all he could think about was hugging him. "Mr. Grey," came Nathan's voice, curt and crisp as September air, emotionless.

"Mr. Petrelli," Gabriel murmured perfunctorily back.

"I'm sorry about this—I realize this isn't exactly a petting zoo, but my boys really wanted to see this other Hiro Nakamura. Apparently they saw him injured, or something like that, and you know how _sensitive_ they are." He spat the word like he couldn't stand to have it in his mouth, and Peter was shocked at the sullen bitterness in his brother's voice. He'd never heard Nathan like this—sarcastic and sharp, yes, even mean…but never this _dark_, never so poisonously angry. "They wanted to see how he was doing."

"I'll be honest with you," Gabriel said evenly. "He's not doing well. The doctors aren't sure—" He stopped, perhaps remembering Peter hiding behind the curtain, the furious helpless way Peter had looked at Hiro.

There was an awkward pause, humans trying to deal with the idea of death. "I couldn't fix him," Monty said suddenly, voice sounding thin in the sound-swallowing room. "I tried."

Another long silence, but a tense one, charged with years of family issues—Peter couldn't see Nathan's face but he could imagine it, his brother's chin dropped to his chest, that small vein in his jaw working as he tried to control himself, to fight back the thousand cutting things that his mind invented so easily. "It's okay, Monty," he said finally, and he almost managed to sound sincere—almost. Peter was sure his son could tell. "You don't have to."

"Dad, I think we'd better go," Simon's voice bit into the tension, quick and concerned. "I've, um, got a paper I need to finish."

"We should get going," Nathan agreed. "It was nice to see you, Mr. Grey."

Peter heard retreating footsteps and a door opening—closing. _Finally_. He tore the curtain away and hopped off the bed—then froze. Monty Petrelli was still here—standing by the bed—how could they have left him, how could they have not noticed? _What is he doing here? What is he doing, period?_ Peter moved quickly forward, came up beside the boy just in time to see Monty lay his hands on Hiro's chest.

"Hey—Monty," Peter said, confused but feeling as if he should stop the kid, feeling as if something was wrong. "Monty, what are you doing?"

Monty was ignoring him, all attention focused on his hands, and Peter remembered his first try, the torn-apart look on Monty's face when he failed the things he shouldn't have attempted. This wasn't _healthy_—he had to stop it.

Suddenly, Hiro sat up.

He lunged upright like a drowning person breaking water, gasping like he'd never breathed before and thought he might not breathe again, desperate sucking breaths. Monty fell back, dizzy and frightened, eyes popping wide as saucers. Peter was grabbing at Hiro's arm, checking him for wounds but the gunshot was just _gone_, his chest as whole as it had ever been. Healed.

"Peter—" Hiro was saying breathlessly, bewilderedly. "What—where am I? What is this?"

Peter turned back to look at Monty; the boy was standing straight now, pale as chalk with his chin lifted defiantly, small fists clenched at his side. "They said I didn't have to," he said. "They said it was okay but it _wasn't_." He fixed Peter with a _look_, dead-on determination far too intense for his age. "I had to."

---

AUTHOR'S NOTE: It's coming a easier now--I think the block might be broken. Simon and Monty helped. I liked them. Anyway, thank you, everyone who encouraged me! These past couple chapters I've literally been writing for you guys, because it was so HARD. If I'd been writing w/o feedback I honestly would have stopped. So thanks! I love my reviewers!


	11. Eta

Peter never would have guessed that The Loft would feel so much like home—when they stumbled back into it from impossible elsewhere, he felt a surge of relief that stunned him, hadn't realized that he'd become so attached to the SoHo artist hideout. It was four walls and a roof, a place to hide—simple. So he felt relief at first, safety—which quickly changed to annoyance as he saw Audrey come stalking towards them.

"Where have you been?" she asked Hiro coldly as he appeared next to Peter, her arms crossed, defensive-angry.

"We were mapping, Audrey, you know that," he explained, walking over to take her hand, but she pulled away, unappeased.

"For ten hours?" she demanded. "I know you can come back right to the minute you left, Hiro, that doesn't make any _sense_."

"Sorry, he was probably a little off because he just nearly _died_," Peter snapped at her. "Give the guy a break, he's had a hard day."

"What does he mean you nearly died?" Audrey asked Hiro, and Peter took the opportunity to escape into the kitchen. Girlfriend-boyfriend spats weren't really his thing—_Audrey_ wasn't really his thing, she was Hiro's, and it was Hiro's job to calm her down. He, on the other hand, was single and hungry and tired, and he was going to solve at least one of those problems right now.

---

"Okay," Hiro said briskly. "Let's go."

Peter looked up at him from his bowl of Ramen, nonplussed. "Go where?"

Hiro rolled his eyes. "To Disneyland, Peter. Where do you think? We've got twenty-one universes left, we've got to get moving!"

"Mmm, I disagree," said Peter through a mouthful of noodles. "You're not going anywhere for awhile, and that's an order."

Hiro blinked at him. "You want to repeat that?"

"You just almost died, tough guy," Peter explained, pushing the bowl away from him. "As far as I'm concerned, you're on bed rest until further notice."

"Sorry, maybe I missed the part where you became my _mother_," Hiro said, annoyed. "You may have noticed that you can't tell me what to do."

"Right, saving the world by passing out from exhaustion, _there_'_s _a good strategy," Peter said sarcastically. "Seriously, Hiro, you look like you're going to collapse any second."

Hiro gave himself a hard look in the mirrored surface of the refrigerator, taking in the circles under his eyes and the shoulders bent by a too-swift recovery. Peter was right, his body wasn't ready for another trip—but of course, he would never admit that. "That's ridiculous," he said stubbornly.

"Actually, it's not," Audrey said, breezing in from the main room. "He's right, Hiro—you're getting some rest, if I have to knock you out myself."

"She'll do it, too," Peter warned solemnly. "Look, Hiro, I skipped out on a universe, it's your turn, okay? Why don't you just sit this one out—you can map Epsilon and Zeta, and I'll take Eta by myself. No big deal."

Hiro studied Audrey wordlessly. "You _will_ actually knock me out, won't you?"

"Absolutely," she said sweetly.

He sighed, bowing to the inevitable. "Fine. Go. Just try not to get yourself killed, because I won't be there to save you," he said sardonically.

Peter stood up from the stool, gave him a mock salute, and closed his eyes.

---

Peter saw the strobe lights through his eyelids even before he opened his eyes—pulsing like a heartbeat, decadent epileptic. When he finally opened them he started to feel dizzy; he was in some kind of dark room, lit only with neon and strobe, filled with people too close to each other. At first he thought it was a nightclub—then he saw the poles, stabbing into the ceiling every hundred feet or so, and he knew it wasn't, or at least not _just_ a nightclub. He could see the silhouettes twisting themselves around the poles, lithe and female, and it took an extra measure of self-control for him to keep his attention on the job. He _was_ a guy, after all—but he wasn't stupid.

He maneuvered his way through the crowd and found a seat at a low, black table, trying to get a feel for this universe that so far, consisted only of a strip club. He studied the people around him, but there was nothing shockingly standout about them, nothing more than usually wrong about an audience like this. It would be harder to dig under the surface of something that seemed so similar to his own reality—with no specific oddities to pounce on, he wasn't quite sure where to look. He snagged a glass of amber liquid from a passing waitress and settled in to wait.

There was a click of stiletto heels on the stage in front of him, feet walking straight past his face. Without thinking, he ran a glance up the legs of the girl onstage, followed the lines of her body all the way up to her face—and nearly had a heart attack. "God!" he yelled, knocking his chair over backwards, knocking his drink across the sleek black tabletop, scrambling to get away from the fact that this girl had blond hair and blue eyes and the face of Claire Bennet. Claire Bennet in a strip club—_working_ in a strip club. The only reaction he could manage was complete, utter panic.

He shoved his way back through the crowd, knocking people indiscriminately from his path, desperate only to get _out_ of this club and get this new, disturbing image of his niece out of his head. He burst from the building like a cork popping free, breathing much harder than necessary for a quick walk, hands on the sides of his head as if he could crush the picture straight from his brain. This was not okay. This was not an okay universe.

He had enough presence of mind to snatch a newspaper from a nearby dispenser, and then his presence of mind was all used up and the panic had full control. He closed his eyes and disappeared.

---

Claire felt fairly disgusting when she finally made it backstage again—for a number of different reasons, but primarily because she was covered in sweat, slick from it so she shined like lacquer. She immediately grabbed a towel and began drying herself off, making a face at the sweat soaking up into the fabric. She saw it when Niki came up behind her, caught her image in the mirror as the woman approached her.

"Hey, honey," Niki said, sitting down on the counter across from her. "You survived your first routine! How do you feel?"

Claire managed a smile, scrubbing the sweat from her shoulders. "It really is harder than it looks, isn't it?"

Niki grinned sympathetically. "A lot harder. Stripping is definitely not for wimps."

"Weird question," Claire said pensively. "It was really dark in there, and it was only for a second, but—I could have sworn I saw Peter sitting at one of the tables."

Niki's grin froze in place, becoming a strange, unnatural grimace. "Claire, Peter's dead. He died seven years ago in the bomb, you know that."

"I _know_," Claire muttered. "I know he's dead. I wasn't saying it was _him_, I'm not _crazy_. I just meant I saw someone who sort of looked like him. It threw me for a minute, seeing his face—I mean, I'm sure he wouldn't approve of all this."

Niki tossed her hair, adolescent-defensive. "Well, that's why he's dead and you're alive, Claire. You do what you have to do to survive."

"I'm just lucky you decided to let me hang around," Claire said with a calming smile, "teach me how to survive outside of Suburbia USA. With my dad gone, I didn't know what to do with myself, I was just…useless."

"You would have made it," Niki assured her. "You're stronger than you think. But I'm glad I met you, too, Claire; after Micah…" she faltered, then instantly tried to pretend she hadn't, shoving her sentence forward, "after Micah died, I think I needed someone to take care of."

"What a great symbiotic relationship we've got going," Claire grinned. "I'm the tapeworm, you're the intestines."

Niki stuck her tongue out. "What an adorable analogy. All right, babe, you ready for the next set?"

Claire rolled her eyes and stood up, fluffing her hair with her hands. "Middle-aged perverts, here I come."

Niki gave her an affectionate half-hug as they walked out the door. "It's a living."

---

"She was _what?_"

"I said," Peter said evenly, pausing to toss back a shot, "she was a stripper."

"That's…really disturbing," Audrey commented lightly. "_How_ old is she?"

Peter put his palm on the newspaper he'd taken and slid it across the counter, skimming it quickly for a date. "July 2014. That means…" He tried some quick math in his head, but he was swiftly becoming too drunk for rational thought, and the numbers refused to add.

"Seven years since she was sixteen," Hiro told him helpfully. "That means she's twenty-three."

"Well," Peter said miserably. "At least she's legal."

"So much for 'go-lay-down-I've-got-this-one'," Hiro said wryly. "Let's see, that's _two_ universes you've bailed on now, Peter."

"Still never gotten shot," Peter said with a half-conscious crooked smile. "And I did get you the newspaper. We can construct a line from there."

Hiro plucked the newspaper from the tabletop and studied it, frown going deeper and deeper as he read the headlines. "Wow," he said finally. "This universe is no fun."

---

Claude sipped his drink slowly, feeling the alcohol rush up to his head like hot ash through his veins, watching the women onstage, smiles on their faces and desperation in their eyes. The smoke hung heavy here like big-city pollution, making it harder to breathe but giving you that buzz for free, secondhand addiction. He liked places like this—it was almost as good as being invisible, slinking about here in the dark, nobody meeting anyone's eyes.

He knew she was here.

He'd been chasing her for months, and he was already planning his celebratory vacation ("Good job, you've finally caught that damn cheerleader!"). Admittedly, he wouldn't have expected to find her at a strip club, but this was where she was, and this was where he would find her. He checked his gun once more, quickly glancing at it in its shoulder holster under his jacket—it was a good gun, a nice one, the government finally giving them the resources they needed. The President understood now how important The Company was to America—after all that had happened, he finally understood.

There was a sudden burst of cheering, and his eyes snapped back up to the main stage. There she was—this was it. He pulled his gun out, stood up, and went after Claire Bennet.

---

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Well, I'm having a blast making up these universes, but yesterday I counted them and realized I've only written six universes so far. Six out of twenty-six—this is going to be a long story :). Anyway, I assume I'm going to eventually run out of ideas (I have this big character map on my wall and I just draw lines between them randomly, it's fun), so if you guys have any suggestions, anything crazy you'd like to see, please—send them my way. I'd love to hear them.


	12. Theta: Risk

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I know a lot of you were concerned about the fate of Eta-universe Claire, but I'm afraid I'm gonna have to go all Tim Kring and cliffhang you on this one. I'm transferring back to the main storyline now, but don't worry! I swear it will be resolved before the end of the story (mild plot hint). Thanks to Meshakhad for the idea for this chapter—in fact, all your ideas were great, I am SO using them.

---

"Ready?" Hiro said.

"Ready," Peter confirmed, slightly hung over but not letting it show, not giving Hiro a chance to pull the skip-a-universe card in payback for yesterday.

"_Go_."

---

Hiro opened his eyes to a thousand people, jostling, chattering around him, shoving into him and past him without the slightest surprise at his appearance. He was in the middle of an anthill-milling crowd, a busy movement of people in some sort of market, fenced in by booths and yelling salesmen. He was confused; he was suffocating—he shoved his way through the salmon-stream of people until he reached the side of the road, where he could breathe and finally observe.

These people were obviously not American—their skin was copper-cinnamon and their hair was black, strong-boned and rhythmically exotic, homogenous. He'd never seen much of other cultures (his travel experience was purely one-way, Japan to America), but he'd seen their seed, and he had no trouble guessing where he'd ended up. Their hair was sleek and dark like Mohinder's, their faces built from the same structures. He was in India.

"Great," he said aloud. "Fantastic. I don't speak Indian!" A few shoppers turned to look at him, but the words meant nothing to them, background noise. "How is _this_ going to work?" he grumbled to himself.

As if in answer to his question, the crowd in front of him suddenly split, a path parting eerily down the middle. The chatter of the market dampened slightly, quieting to a low rumble in a hundred-foot radius from where Hiro stood. _Okay_, he thought tensely. _Freaky,_and his hand went to his sword. But nobody was looking at him—the hush was radiating from a slender figure about twenty feet away, calming walking towards him like some kind of surreal Indian Moses.

It was a young man, sharp-featured and tall, radiating equal parts calm and curiosity. He has a strange _otherness_ about him, a distance that was hard for even his eyes to breach. Part of it was his appearance, the long hair and beading—Hiro had met Sparrow's grandmother once, the medicine woman of a small Iroquois tribe, with her white braids and feeling of serenity, of something very old. Oddly enough, this boy reminded him of her, the same thrumming presence. He watched the newcomer warily, not sure whether to expect an attack or sage advice.

The boy smiled, and then finally spoke: "Hiro Nakamura. We've been waiting for you."

---

Hiro had never been inside the Taj Mahal—never been within a thousand miles of it, never _expected_ to go inside it. It was all he could do to keep walking, to keep himself from simply stopping and staring, gawking like a two-bit tourist at the sweeping lines of the arches, the marbled white of the walls. It was so graceful and grand-scale, so extremely epic. He was intimidated.

He wasn't sure where his mysterious greeter was taking him, but the young man hadn't tried to harm him in any way, so Hiro was allowing him a modicum of mystery for now. It wasn't like he hadn't _asked_—he'd asked where they were going almost immediately, just a probe, not particularly expecting an answer. The boy had simply smiled and answered, "She's waiting." Hiro had seen enough sci-fi movies to know how many things this could mean, a full spectrum of possibilities ranging from horrifying to wonderful. He would just have to wait.

Perhaps not much longer, though—they had reached a massive set of double doors, guarded by a pair of men in archaic matched armor of a vintage monarchy style. The two guards gave his guide stiff half-bows and swung the doors open, revealing a long, daunting hallway, a glassy marble path leading to—someone. There was definitely a person at the end, some hundreds of feet away, a central figure of eye-catching bright scarlet. He moved down the hallway, overly conscious of the way his footsteps echoed in the empty hall, feeling about as small as he ever had.

As he began to get close, the figure started to come into focus: it was a woman on a throne, skirt spread about her like fluid scarlet fire. He got closer and he saw that she was beautiful (_striking_ flawless statuesque); he got closer still and he saw that she was cold. Her classical jaw was set, her perfect face tight with an iciness incongruent with her heather-gold skin. He didn't have to be told—he knew this was the queen; the words sprang unbidden to his mind at the sight of her.

She made such an arresting picture, in fact, that it took him several whole minutes to realize there was another person in the room. A quiet thirtysomething man stood over her shoulder, present but not hovering, close enough to be a confidante. There was no guesswork about this man, no half-familiarity—it was Mohinder—Hiro recognized him immediately.

"Sanjog," the woman said in an appropriately compelling mezzo-soprano. "This is him?"

"This is the one from your dreams, Memsaab Shanti," Sanjog murmured deferentially, eyes on the floor. "I found him in the market as I said."

"Perfect," she said, her voice crisp and mildly British. "Hiro Nakamura."

_Oh, great._ She was talking to him. He quickly tried to think of a response that didn't involve mindless gibbering. "Yes, that's me," he said—it didn't matter how impressive she was, he wasn't going to call her 'majesty'. He'd lived in America far too many years for that.

"I am Shanti Suresh, Empress of India," she said authoritatively. _Empress_, he thought dizzily. _This is all so ridiculous! I've fallen into a freaking Rogers and Hammerstein musical! _"I've been waiting for you."

"So I heard," Hiro managed. "I don't mean to be rude, but—why?"

"You have great power," she said silkily. "So do I."

"Forgive me," Hiro said, finding himself falling back into the formality his father had taught him. "In the world I come from, you…" _How do I say this delicately?_ "You had—died. I know very little about you."

Shanti leaned back in her chair, stretching a hand out to a fan lying on a table ten feet away—instantly, the fan leapt to her, and she caught it neatly, never taking her gaze off his. Mohinder took a small step forward, seemingly in charge of fielding such unseemly personal questions. "My sister is the ruling monarch of Asia. More importantly, she is the strongest telekinetic and telepath in the world." There was pride in that, and some fear, barely perceptible. Shanti said nothing, snapping the fan open in front of her face so that only her eyes were visible, deep drowning-pools of brown, lined with tiny jewels.

"She saw you come," Sanjog interjected quietly. "She saw you in her dreams. Memsaab Shanti often dreams of things to come—and I tell her of them when she cannot see for herself. She has great power."

A telepath. He'd never met one of those. He'd read too many comic-books—he couldn't help asking—"Can you…make people do things? With your mind, I mean?" _Indelicate question number two_, he thought, but she didn't seem to take offense.

"Of course," she said with a cat-smile.

_Yikes_. "I need to know about your world," he explained. "You say you rule all of Asia? How is that possible?"

Exposition apparently unfit for her, it was once again Mohinder's job to step up and explain. "When the world began to change," he said, almost rhythmically, storytelling, "some began to change with it. But as with any change, there was fear—there was awe, there was confusion. The human race was tearing itself apart with its desire not to adjust. Some rose out of the chaos, as they always do, and they created something to live with. They saved the world."

"Let me guess," Hiro said, starting to get a feel for this world, "these—heroes. They were all Specials? They had abilities?"

"Of course," Mohinder said, sounding surprised. "That's the natural order of things, Mr. Nakamura. The old are replaced by the new."

"Right," Hiro said noncommittally, more uneasy by the minute. "I have to say I don't quite understand the geography of all this—Asia is one monarchy?"

"Asia is under my control," Shanti said suddenly. "The Americas are ruled by a man named Peter Petrelli—all but the island of Haiti," she said, frowning, "which we have been unable to take; our abilities seem to be useless there. No matter—eventually it will fall to Petrelli. Europe is _barely_ held by Claude Rainns," she smiled again, scary-pretty, "who will surrender to me very soon now, if he's not a fool."

Hiro was officially freaked out now—this beautiful woman talking about the world like it was a giant game of Risk, conquests and superiority. This universe was too intense for him, and he was going to leave _now_. There was only one more question to ask: "What about Japan?" he had to know.

She leaned forward, resting an elbow on the arm of her throne, looking supremely majestic and oddly satisfied. "Japan, Mr. Nakamura, was held by you." A smile. "Until I killed you."

Hiro started, twenty thousand alarms going off in his head, full-on threat-mode. "That's right," she purred. "There's a reason I brought you here. When Sanjog told me you were coming to this universe, I have to admit I was dismayed. You were a difficult kill, Nakamura. But I can kill you again."

---


	13. Theta: LoveSlashHate

Even after all these years with his ability, Hiro couldn't help a natural human response—he turned and ran. He made it about four steps before he heard a voice in his head, intrusive persuasive, saying _Stop_—like it wasn't even a question, like it was a command, and he _did it_, instantly and without hesitation, all his momentum grinding to a halt. He stared furiously at his legs, trying to force them to move, but they wouldn't budge an inch and she was walking towards him, slinking in a graceful _felidae_ manner to where he stood frozen, stopped by a thought. He could see Mohinder and Sanjog leaving the room, slipping out to let her murder in peace—she motioned with her hand, and a knife popped out from its place on her belt, gold-gilded but still terrifying. She smiled at him for a moment, moving around so she was face-to-face with him, and then sent the knife slingshotting at him, straight for his heart.

He screwed his eyes shut and waited for the impact—but it didn't happen. After a few seconds, and the sound of a frustrated gasp, he forced himself to open his eyes again, and there was the knife—hovering inches away from him, stopped midair. Shanti spun around, her face showing more emotion that he'd seen yet and that emotion was _anger_, flaming female pique. "_Peter_," she spat. And sure enough, another figure was moving into his line of vision now, Peter Petrelli in an expensive dark suit, a smirk, and a short haircut, not even looking at her, buttoning his cuffs disinterestedly. She swept over to him, imperious and thwarted. "Come now, is that any way for an ally to behave?"

He gave her a slow half-smile at her, charming and contradictory. "Darling. You remember how angry I was the _first_ time you killed Hiro Nakamura, don't you?"

She moved closer, till there was only inches between their bodies, snapping-power tension, unspoken things running between them like a live current. "You wouldn't."

His smile got suddenly wider, angry and self-assured. "Oh, I would."

And with his words, suddenly something was broken—he _shoved_ out from himself, sending out telekinesis like a shockwave, tossing both of them backwards. Shanti went tumbling across the hall, but Hiro found himself slammed into a side wall, spread-eagled paralyzed, but safely out of the way—with a perfect view of the fight that was about to explode.

Shanti got back to her feet and screamed something unintelligible—her words were drowned out as the window imploded, glass shards flying at Peter with a buzz like angry insects. He swatted them away and they fell to the floor, and he came back at her, raising a hand—and then stopped—and then moved another slow step forward, scowling, movements stop-motion shuddering like he was trying to move through molasses. Hiro recognized the symptoms of mind-control, and he sympathized—but he didn't need to for long, because Peter broke through Shanti's mindbending like a bulldozer punching through cardboard, too strong for her to hold. His pent-up power lashed out at her hard, sending her skidding across the floor, slammed flat on the marble hall.

She wasn't moving, and Hiro wondered if she was unconscious—he hoped she'd snapped her neck. Peter walked calmly over where she laid, straddling her with one knee on her chest. "Come on, honey," he said, sliding a hand down the side of her face, "why do we always fight when I visit? Just let the poor guy go."

She grabbed his wrist and rolled him over, pinning him, eyes spitting sparks, far more mobile in her satin dress than Hiro would have thought possible. "What's the problem, Peter?" she taunted. "Why don't you just flame me? Why don't you blow me up?"

He shoved her off him and moved away, standing. "Now, would that be fair?"

She scissor-kicked his legs out from under him and he hit the ground rolling, body tumbling over the window-glass shards that leapt up to bite him, suddenly animate, slicing open his suit to reveal skin and blood under it. Hiro could hear him gasp with pain, but the cuts were already healing, suturing themselves together, and he rolled onto his feet with a grin most people couldn't have managed after all they'd thrown at each other. Before she could move, he threw a hand behind him, tearing her massive hardwood throne from its base and throwing it at her with terrifying speed, making the air thrum where it passed, heavy enough to crush her. But she leapt away and it missed her, smashing instead against the far doors, making them buckle, snapping inward to reveal the two guards—startled, but studiously ignoring the lovers' spat—clearly they had experience in this sort of thing.

Shanti got a telekinetic hold on the biggest piece of the broken doors, sending it scything at Peter, forcing him to duck and roll to avoid being sliced messily in half. "You know I could bring this whole place down around your head," she snarled.

"The Taj Mahal?" he snorted, coming back to his feet. "Sure you could." And the door suddenly lashed back at her, unexpected-quick, and clipped her on the side of the head. She dropped like a strings-cut puppet, black hair and red dress pooling on the floor.

He stood and looked at her for a moment—perhaps making sure that she was really unconscious—and then walked slowly over. He knelt and gathered her in his arms, surprisingly tender, picking her effortlessly up off the floor, her hair trailing down his arm. Just as Hiro feared he would be stuck, plastered against the wall for the rest of his life, Peter turned and fixed him with a look. "Get out of here, Nakamura," he said emotionlessly, and suddenly Hiro was released, falling the last few inches to the floor.

Peter turned back again, ignoring Hiro again, and walked the last few steps to the door. As he opened it (with his mind, Hiro thought, because he had no hands available) he saw Peter duck his head and kiss the queen on the forehead, then disappear with her into the side hall.

_Huh_, Hiro thought dazedly. _And I thought _I _had a weird relationship. _

---

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sorry so short! This was a very self-contained scene, and I couldn't make it go on any longer once it was over. Thanks for sticking with me—I swear I'll get you something longer soon!


	14. Iota

When Peter opened his eyes, his first impression was of _color_, a room of bright primary shades, red blue yellow. The people in the room stood out against it, wearing crisp white polos and whiter smiles, knee-length skirts and cazh slacks. They were so very polished they almost gleamed, and it took a few moments for his eyes to get to their faces. They were gaping at him in a confused, happy sort of way, three men and one woman, fairly stunned, and he understood why.

This was a first for him—coming face-to-face with himself. Iota-universe Peter looked vastly mind-boggled, staring at him as if waiting for him to explain himself. The woman was blond and instantly recognizable as Claire, hand frozen on the arm of a man he didn't recognize, smiling and clean-cut, brown-haired. The third man was like a sucker-punch to the gut, and Peter had to work very hard not to stare back at _Nathan_, alternate-universe but still his brother, still looking exactly the same as the last day Peter had seen him except for his smile—brighter and less sardonic than Peter had every seen it. _Don't make this more than it is_, he scolded himself. _This is _not _your brother._ He knew it, but it couldn't stop him from wanting to drop everything and hug Nathan, to forget saving and solving and everything and stay here in this room with his brother and never go back, to twist the space-time continuum into pretzels and not even care as long as he could talk to Nathan and have him talk back.

"Well," Iota-Peter said calmly. "I'm going to assume there's some kind of an explanation for this."

"Oh, yeah, sorry," Peter said, tearing his eyes away from his not-dead not-brother. "I'm Peter…um, I guess you are too, but I can explain. I'm from an alternate universe, and I'm…here to learn about your world." _Why does this sound like an eighties sci-fi movie all of the sudden? _he wondered wildly, but the Bradyesque Petrelli family didn't seem to be at all alarmed.

"Really?" Claire said intently. "How _interesting_. I've always wondered if parallel universes actually existed. I'm sorry, how rude of me—I don't know if you know this, I don't know what _your_ universe is like, but I'm Claire and this is my husband West. That's Nathan, and that's…well, that's you," she said with a small laugh.

"Nice to, um, meet me," Peter said with a raised eyebrow, offering his hand.

_They're certainly taking this well_, Peter thought, shaking his hand and then Nathan's, still focusing on not staring, not freaking Nathan out.

A loud, obnoxious buzzer suddenly burst through the room, reminiscent of a fire alarm, repetitive insistent. "Here we go again," Nathan said with an inside-joke smile. "Sorry, we'll have to finish this later, we've gotta fly."

The three men walked quickly out of the room, purposeful, and Claire took his elbow and guided him behind them into the hall. West was stopped by a large screen in the wall, typing at a pull-down keyboard and then flipping it back up, the men picking up speed, grabbing jackets on their way out the door. Peter and Claire made it to the doorway just as they stopped—paused—smiled at them—then bent their knees and sprung into the air.

Peter threw his head back to watch them, awed at the easy practiced grace of their flight, sliding smoothly into formation like fighter jets, disappearing quickly into the cloudcover. He couldn't seem to take his eyes off the sky, hardly able to grasp the enormity of what he'd just seen. Claire wrapped an arm around his waist and guided him back inside, smiling knowingly. "Pretty cool, isn't it? I take it you don't do that in your world."

Peter paused a moment on the doorstep to get a look at the house; it looked vaguely like the Petrelli mansion, but with more color, deeper colors, bright saturate, brashly unreal. As she brought him inside, he watched the continuation of the theme—everything crisp and high-color, cartoonistic. Claire fit right into it, with her sleek long hair and superwhite smile—somehow it all worked. She paused at the screen and typed something quickly, then shut the monitor off. "Just an earthquake in Belize," she told him with a smile. "They'll be glad to have the boys."

"So they're—what? Superheroes?" Peter asked, with more cynicism than he'd intended. "What exactly do they _do_?"

"They save people," Claire said simply. "When there's a disaster or something, the Secretary of State lets them know, and they go fix it."

"And—people don't _mind_?" Peter asked bewilderedly.

Claire cocked her head and paused for a minute—listening—and then moved toward the stairs. "Mind?" she answered finally. "Why would they mind?"

"They don't mind that you're—different?" he tried to explain, climbing the stairs after her.

She turned back to smile at him as she walked, amused. "Well, it's not like we're going around killing people, Peter—can I call you Peter? The boys found out they had a talent and they used it—it's like being good at writing, or something."

Peter was about to argue this, but she'd reached the top of the stairs and was going into a dark room. Now that he focused, he could hear the noise that had caught her attention—a baby, crying. She reached into the crib on the side of the room and pulled a child out of it, bouncing him gently in her arms. "Oh, Adam, what's the matter? Are you gonna wake up now? Hey, baby, don't cry." The child quieted under her voice, and Peter stared at him, transfixed by the big-eyed towheaded baby even more than he had been by Nathan, completely thrown by all the possibilities this child represented, things he'd never, never thought of. "Adam, this is Peter," Claire said, carrying her son over to him. "I guess he's kind of your uncle."

---

"Peter?" Claire called up the stairs. "We're going to have dinner, do you want to come down?"

Peter closed the album and set it back on the desk, trying to remember the last time anyone had called him to dinner. He'd spent the last hour or so leafing through newspaper clippings and glossy press shots, absorbing, getting a feel for this universe while Claire cooked dinner for the returning heroes. This world seemed too good to be true, but apparently it _was_, in all its idealistic glory—people didn't hate the Petrellis, didn't fear them, admired them and idolized them. There were countless shots of the brothers and West, accepting medals, signing autographs, smiling like they had more teeth than the average human.

As he walked down the stairs, he started to hear voices on the first floor, cheerful exhilarated tones with no volume control, triumphant. He came off the stairwell and saw West, Nathan, and Iota-Peter in the hall, taking their coats off and slapping each other on the back, flushed with heroism. "How was the earthquake?" Peter asked sardonically.

"Well, it was an earthquake," West said with a self-depreciating grin. "What can we say? But I think we saved a lot of people, so that was good."

"We do what we can," Nathan agreed, putting a hand on Peter's shoulder, probably with no idea what that did to Peter, what painful nostalgia it called up. "Come on, I think Claire made chicken enchiladas."

"I did," Claire confirmed as they walked into the dining room. "Earthquakes definitely call for enchiladas. We're going to have to make it quick, though—I've got a press conference in forty-five minutes."

"A press conference for what?" Peter asked as he sat in the nearest chair, feeling slightly uncomfortable in the conventional family setting.

"She takes care of all the PR stuff," Iota-Peter told him, pulling the enchiladas toward him with a careless bit of telekinesis. "When we're off flying around, she tells people what we're doing and she answers all their questions."

"It gets pretty crazy sometimes," Claire told him, spooning a perfect, saliva-inducing enchilada onto his plate. "People are absolutely _nuts_ about the boys—it's strange having girls screaming over your husband and your dad."

"Hey, they scream over me, too," Iota-Peter teased.

"I was looking through your albums," Peter said. "You guys seem like you've done a lot of good."

"Don't make us blush," Nathan replied, the first hint of his brother's trademark sarcasm Peter had heard yet. "We're not looking for medals and newspaper articles. We just do what we feel like we need to."

As wonderful as this world seemed to be, Peter couldn't let that stand—there was _nobody_ who wasn't serving their own self-interests. He didn't care if it was a parallel universe, he didn't care how nice and pretty they were—people didn't _work_ that way. "Funny you should say that," he commented, keeping his voice carefully neutral. "I came across an article that was pretty interesting—apparently you're running for President, Nathan?"

He gave a rueful smile, stabbing a piece of chicken. "You can't believe everything you read."

"Those articles pop up all the time," West explained. "People see him as someone to look up to. They want him to tell them what to do. And who knows?" he said with a grin. "We're still trying to get him to consider it as a real option."

"So this whole…superhero thing," Peter said, disillusion spilling helplessly out of him, "it's not just some platform for political office?"

"Peter," Claire said, looking genuinely hurt. "How could you say something like that?"

"I don't know," he said, dropping him fork—finally snapping a little under the pressure of this sleek prepackaged universe. "I guess I just don't really get what kind of Barbie world you've got going on here. I mean, do you guys have _anything _hard _ever_ happen? There is no _way _this is not all just a cover for something else!"

"What, it's a crime for us to be happy?" Iota-Peter responded, eyebrows coming down over his un-stress-lined eyes. "What kind of a world do you _come_ from?"

"A real one!" Peter shouted, standing. "A world that doesn't look like a freaking comic book! A world with _problems_, and bad people! Believe me, I don't expect you to understand!"

All three men had their mouths open to respond, but they were cut off by a siren—the World Emergency Alarm, as Peter had labeled it in his mind. The Secretary of State was calling—there was a kitten stuck up a tree somewhere. They immediately dropped the argument, moving purposefully for the door with heroism in their eyes. As Iota-Peter passed him, he couldn't help a last shot, reaching out and grabbing his arm, forcing him to listen to one last sentence.

"You know, someday there's going to be somebody that you can't save," he said, trying to impress reality on his parallel-universe double.

"There already has been," Iota-Peter said, locking eyes with him. "You've got to keep it in perspective, Peter." Then he shrugged Peter's hand off and walked out the door.

Peter stood staring after him for a moment, wondering if perhaps there wasn't something he was getting here. Then he felt Claire's hand on his shoulder, and she was smiling at him—not angry, _pitying_, which was almost worse. "I have to go," he told her abruptly.

She smiled wider, sweeter, pulling him back to the table. "Why don't you finish your enchilada first?"


	15. Kappa

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Ten points to anyone who can guess what old TV series I'm paying homage to in this chapter!

---

Peter came home to the unusual smell of cooking. The Loft smelled like gravy and rosemary, domestically at odds with its spare interior. He immediately looked for the source of the smell, and there was Audrey at the stove, stirring a pot. For an instant he thought he might have missed his mark, ended up in something similar to the Beta Simone-in-the-kitchen universe, but when he turned, he could see their spiderweb of timelines and Hiro standing the in the middle, and he knew that he'd hit the right dimension after all.

"Um," he said, walking to the stove. "You're cooking, Audrey."

"Yeah, I noticed," she replied dryly, not looking up from her stirring, so he shrugged and walked to Hiro, not willing to instigate anything deeper.

"Can you hold this for me?" Hiro said, thrusting a paper-clipped string at him, balancing tape and scissors in the other hand.

"Sure," Peter said easily. "So how was it?"

"Interesting," Hiro said, making for a face. "Mohinder's sister was alive, and she was not pleasant. Pretty girl—very intense."

"Sounds like fun," Peter grinned. "I had some kind of tripped-out Thunderbirds universe, toothpaste smiles and photo ops. Too good to be true, you know?"

"Dinner's ready!" Audrey announced, tapping her spoon clean on the side of the pot.

"No thanks, I just ate," explained Peter, wrapping the string around his wrist.

She frowned at him, hand on her hip. "Maybe you don't understand, Peter. _I cooked dinner_. It's not like this is going to happen very often."

"I said no thanks," Peter repeated with a brittle smile, too tense from universe-hopping to care about consequences. "Three chicken enchiladas doesn't leave much room for a second course, Audrey."

She shook her head and muttered something under her breath, sweeping into the next room. "Thanks a lot," Hiro said. "She _was_ in a good mood." Peter shrugged, not interested in keeping his girlfriend happy. "Well, if you're not going to have dinner, you get to finish this line," he said, shoving the scissors into his friend's hand.

Peter gave him an affronted look. "How am I supposed to do that? _I _didn't go there."

"Oh, I've got everything attached already," Hiro said breezily, walking up the stairs. "You've just got to do the rest." He gave Peter a last sardonic smile and disappeared into the next room.

"Great," Peter yelled after a moment, still holding the string. "I'll just stay here, then. You have fun!"

---

"Right, then," Peter said, sticking his head into the room. "I've done my string and, oh yeah—yours too, Hiro, because I'm such a nice guy. I'm gonna go ahead and start on, um…whatever's next."

"It's Kappa," Audrey said icily, half-lowered eyelids and one hand in Hiro's.

Which, incidentally, was what Peter was trying to from—their quiet giggling and flirting was making him uncomfortable, voyeuristic. Hiro had flat-out said Audrey was nothing to him, but he always seemed more sane when he was with her, more whole—and Peter was just screwing it up. They needed time alone, and he needed violence. He needed to hit something.

"I'll finish my dinner and head out," Hiro said lazily, ignoring the fact that his bowl was already empty. "You can take universe number nine, I'll take ten."

"Gotcha," Peter said. "I'm out."

---

Peter opened his eyes to darkness and churning bodies—people shoving against him like a mosh pit, jumping, yelling. He was shoved irresistibly sideways into a nearby angry man, but the man didn't seem to notice, was too busy waving a poorly-made sign and yelling, oblivious as the rest of the crowd, angry—angry and gleeful, bright mass energy.

It was some kind of a mob—Peter had seen enough of them to recognize it at once, a churning grey mass of people pressing up against police lines, ready to burst, ready to take any action that presented itself. _This is not where I want to be_, he thought instantly, but he couldn't seem to get out, short of disappearing—and he had a feeling he didn't want to attract notice, not here. A man down the line from him screamed something about "freaks" and "out of our city" and threw a bottle, green glass shattering on the street past the caution tape. The crowd roared around him, pressing in closer, ready to do damage, and suddenly Peter had a very good idea what this mob was about.

Suddenly staying where he was wasn't an option—he put his arms up over his face and shoved mercilessly through the crowd, driving people out of his way with the tiniest touch of superstrength—nothing too alarming, nothing to draw attention from the people holding signs that said "GO HOME, FREAKSHOW" and "DEATH TO MUTANTS". Finally he broke free, coming into an empty patch by a parked police car; he turned around and surveyed the scene.

It was New York City; it was dark. The sun had already fallen behind the skyline, but the city _itself_ was dark, all soot and tinted glass. There was ugliness boiling up from the mob and ugliness in the city, in its broken streetlights and bleakness. He didn't like it.

The focus of the mob and the police stakeout seemed to be a subway terminal, its aboveground building already riddled with bullet holes, still under fire from a line of black-clad implacable police a few hundred feet away. On the other hand, there were definitely people shooting back—he saw an officer drop, clutching his shoulder, saw the barrels of guns poking through barricaded windows. Whoever they were, they were fighting back.

_Right_, he thought decisively. _Time to figure out what's going on here_. He plastered on a big-eyed confused-civilian face and deliberately stumbled into a cop as she walked past. "What's going on?" he asked her, panicked, clutching at her uniform. "I just stopped here on the way from work, I don't understand! Tell me what's going on!"

She detached him, firmly but not unkindly, blindsided as many women had been before by his long eyelashes framing lying eyes. "We've got a group of Specials pinned down in the subway station," she explained quickly. "Don't worry, sir, you're not in any danger—we'll have them by morning."

Peter glanced back at the police line, moving up, and he knew she was right. He pulled away from her, mind working to understand, to strategize. One thing was for sure: he had to get in there. He leaned against the police cruiser, resting his arms on the top of the car, watching the siege. There were people screaming, tearing their voices up with communal hate, gunshots from both sides, biting into wood and body armor. A piece of the barricade snapped away, opening a square-hole view into the subway station—Peter saw a head, a face, a brush of black hair. He had a sudden spark of recognition—and an idea.

He pulled back even farther from the mob, tucking himself into a doorway. He closed his eyes and focused. _Parkman_, he though, concentrating on throwing the thought away from him. _Matt Parkman! Hey, can you hear me? _There was a long pause, filled with Peter hoping this was a good idea, and then there was a mind-voice in his head, saying, _Who__ is this? What the hell do you want?_ Peter immediately tried to figure out how to explain himself in a nonthreatening, non-crazy way, but Parkman wasn't interested in waiting. He felt a sudden pressure against his mind, a presence flipping through his thoughts like fingers on a Rolodex, and then a palpable sense of surprise. _Peter_? Parkman said, sharply, shocked, leaving Peter with a distinct sense of what-did-I-do-now. _Yeah_, he projected back. _It's me_. _I've got to get in there_. It was only half a lie—he _was_ Peter Petrelli, just probably not the one they expected. _No kidding! _Parkman snapped. _Any ideas?__ Wait, never mind, I might have something. Do you think you can get any closer without getting scanned? Uh, yeah_, Peter said, willing to agree with anything. _Yeah_,_ what's the plan?_ Parkman came back with, _Working on it!, _tense and short-fused.

Peter did a quick check in either direction, and then ducked under the police tape—he was wearing grey, he was in the middle of chaos, and he was _sneaky_. Chances were, he wouldn't get caught until it was too late. He slid carefully around the edge of the conflict, staying well clear of the line of fire, wondering exactly how close he was meant to get. Suddenly, a figure melted out of the wall behind him, going from perfect camouflage to a man in a few seconds, a stunning human-chameleon feat. He watched color play across the tall man's skin with open-mouthed awe and jealousy, wondering how fast he could acquire this new ability.

He didn't have much time to stare—there was a yell of recognition from the police line, and suddenly they were staring down dozens of gun barrels. Peter had just started having serious doubts about Parkman's plan when the chameleon-man started to move, grabbing him by the back of his collar and pressing a gun to the side of his head, yelling, "Get back! I'll shoot him, get _back_!!"

The gun barrels wavered in confusion as the man pulled Peter against him, dragging him in the direction of the subway terminal. However dismal this world seemed to be, apparently police were still supposed to protect and serve, for these men didn't seem willing to risk his life, weren't sure of their next move. Peter was glad to see it—he hoped nobody would call their bluff. "Just play along," the chameleon-man said quietly, pulling him backwards.

"Yeah, no problem."

He locked eyes with the female cop he'd spoken to earlier—she looked concerned, angry, but he didn't have the energy to feel sorry for her. Standing next to her was a man in a dark suit, dark curly hair, dark gold skin—Mohinder again, looking razor-sharp and secretive. The look on Mohinder's face worried him, and the object in Mohinder's hand worried him even more. It was an indeterminate boxy grey metal _thing_, not terribly threatening except in the fact that Mohinder was pointing it straight at him, and others were looking at him in surprise, as if had never occurred to them to use it. "What's that thing Mohinder Suresh is holding?" he asked his faux-captor, suddenly afraid things were about to go very wrong.

The man took one quick look at the grey box and started, swearing. "_Damn it_! We're being scanned. Game's up, we've got to _move!_"

Just as they broke for the station, Peter heard a yell behind him, an accusing cry of "He's one of them! He's one of the Specials, it's a _trick_!"

The police opened fire as they sprinted the last few feet, the chameleon-man diving through an opening in a window as gunshot tore up the ground behind them. Peter slid in after, feeling the sudden sharp sting of a bullet in his arm as he rolled inside, shot right above his elbow. "Damn!" he said sadly as the people in the terminal returned fire, watching the bullet heal out and clatter to the floor. "Ow!"

There were hands on his shoulders, helping him up, familiar faces and very wide eyes. Claire and Noah Bennet, Hana Gitelman, Candice Wilmer, Sparrow Redhouse, dozens of others he didn't recognize, all with dirt on their faces and guns in their hands. "Peter!" Parkman said, hands on his shoulders. "My God! How is this even _possible?_"

"Look, there's something I couldn't explain mind-to-mind," Peter said quickly, wanting to drop the bomb as soon as possible and get it off his chest. "I'm not the Peter Petrelli you know, I've come in from an alternate dimension. I'm from another universe—I don't technically exist, here."

Peter could see Claire's shoulders slump, her father's arm quickly, quietly circle around her and pull her closer. "Well, that doesn't really make sense," Matt said frankly, "but weirder things have happened. We were just a little freaked out, because—well, look."

He pointed to a corner of the room, where _bodies_ seemed to be lying, still as sleeping people, neatly lined up beside each other. Peter only had to look for a few seconds before he found his own corpse—blood splashed across his forehead, blank stare. He felt sick. "I'm—I'm sorry," he said, barely forcing the words out around his own macabre shock.

"Listen, I don't know what you're here for, but we're kind of busy," Matt said brusquely. "Just don't screw anything up, all right?"

"Yeah, okay," Peter said neutrally, not wanting to argue with a clearly overstressed Matt. Matt nodded brusquely at him and knelt back on the floor besides the chameleon-man, shoving the barrel of his semi-automatic between two wooden slats.

Peter just stood where he was for a few moments, trying to figure out how to get the history of this universe without getting in anyone's way. There was a man in the corner, near the bodies, who seemed to be less frantic than the rest of them, typing methodically on a laptop, so he went to talk to him.

When he neared the man, he was surprised to see that it was Sylarstudious-looking and intense with a pair of black-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He reminded himself forcefully of Epsilon universe with its helpful principal Sylar, squashed his instincts to attack the man, and took a seat next to him.

"So you aren't Peter Petrelli after all," Sylar said, not taking his eyes off the computer screen. "At least," he nodded to the body a few feet away, "not that one."

"No, I'm not," Peter confirmed. "I'm from an alternate dimension."

"String theory," Sylar nodded. "Twenty-six layered universes. I always wondered."

"Exactly," Peter said, surprised at his instant full comprehension. "So, look—I'm supposed to be mapping this dimension's timeline, and everyone else seems a little—busy. Would you mind telling me how things got this bad?"

Sylar's eyes flicked up to him for a split-second, then back to his computer. "I'm pretty busy too, actually—I've got button cameras watching every one hundred feet of this station and two on police cruisers. I'm trying to keep track of it all." Peter looked at the screen for the first time, and saw that it was a mass of small windows running video footage, a confusing continuous live feed. "But I'll help you," Sylar said unexpectedly. "I mean—string theory. I always wondered."

Peter wondered if he should start taking notes at times like these; then again, none of the universes he'd visited had been very forgettable. Sylar continued to type, his voice spinning stories like he was on autopilot, dry and historical. "Three months ago a woman named Jessica Sanders went on a killing spree in New York City, right in Central Park, killed dozens of people before she was finally captured by the police. All the news stations got it on video and played it for weeks, speculating about monsters and conspiracies until nobody knew what to believe. Finally the head geneticist on the Jessica Sanders case, Mohinder Suresh—he held this big press conference, said she was a genetic freak and that there were more of them, that they were everywhere and they were dangerous.

All of the sudden it's a witch hunt, you know? People being dragged out of their houses and shot, people being accused, people being arrested. It was bad enough when it was just guesswork, but then Suresh comes up with this scanning machine, cute little handheld thing that'll tell you if a person's a Special or not. Only law enforcement's supposed to use them, but of course you hear stories about what happens when other people get a hold of them…it wasn't pretty, Peter. It hasn't been pretty for a long time."

"So how'd you all end up here?" Peter asked quietly, not wanting to break the flow of the story.

"It was Bennet that started it," Sylar said. "I'm sure he would have stayed with the Company if he could have, a lot of them would have been happy to fight for the other side—but with the scanners, there was no way to hide, and there was no way they weren't going to get called out, there was too much pressure to kill _all_ the 'freaks'," he said, trace bitterness biting into his words. "They're scared. I guess after Jessica and some of the other attacks, they've got a right to be, but they want us _gone_. They want to wipe us out. Well, Bennet wasn't taking it, not with his daughter to protect, so he found this empty subway station and made it home, hid out here for awhile. Of course, word gets around, and other people started showing up, they started gathering down here, our own little freak city.

It was going pretty well for a few weeks, but I think we knew we couldn't hide forever. Somehow they found out. And they came. Now, I guess it's just a matter of time."

Peter waited a moment to make sure Sylar was done, but the man was already blocking him out, absorbed in his computer. "I want to help," he said finally.

Sylar's head snapped around to him, about to say something—then suddenly snapped back to his computer screen, eyes slitted. He studied the screen for a moment then stood up suddenly, striding over to the barricade, and Peter followed as soon as his reaction time could manage. "Parkman," he said urgently, pulling Matt around to face him.

"What?" Matt snapped irritably, reloading his gun.

"They're coming."

"Of course they're coming! Where have you been for the last two days?"

"No," Sylar clarified calmly. "I don't mean the NYPD, Matt. They've called out the National Guard. They'll be here in an hour and half."

Matt swore violently, punching the nearest two-by-four with enough force to slice open his knuckles. "Okay, people!" he yelled. "Dig in, we've got a fight on our hands!"

Peter grabbed Matt's shoulder. "I want to help."

"What?"

"I said I want to help. I'm here, and you know how much damage I can do," Peter argued. "I can help you."

"You can't do that," Sylar protested.

"Why the hell not? You think I'm just going to sit here and watch you fight?"

"Let me show you something," Sylar said, detaching Peter from Matt and dragging him back to the corner. He dug through a pile of debris by the bodies and finally came up with what he was looking for, a rolled-up canvas, streaked with soot and blood. He quickly unrolled it and shoved it before Peter's eyes, a stylized painting from an artist he immediately recognized.

"Isaac Mendez painted this," he said in surprise.

"Yes he did, and now he's dead," Sylar said harshly. "Look at the painting, Peter."

Peter managed to focus his eyes on the picture, and it instantly became familiar, very similar to a Mendez painting he'd seen before. It was a picture of him, dead, bloody and blank-eyed on a concrete floor. "You think this is me? I mean_, this_ me and not _your_ Peter Petrelli?"

"It could be him," Sylar shrugged. "But it could be you. There are some anomalies in the painting I'd been wondering about, and this would certainly explain them." He dropped the painting and took a step towards Peter. "Do you see what I'm saying? You stay here, Peter, you're going to die. That can't happen."

"And why not?" Peter said, defiance for no good reason other than that he felt like a fight, didn't care about the consequences.

"I _know_ how string theory works, Peter," Sylar said frustratedly. "You are going to screw things up _so bad_ if you die—you're going to tear a hole in the universe that's _not _going to be easy to fix! Is that what you want? Maybe you want to kill yourself, but do you_ really_ have to take the rest of us along with you?"

Peter dropped his eyes, feeling like a child being scolded by a parent, hating that Sylar was right about this. "So what if I do?" he said mutinously. "I won't be around to see it."

Sylar took another step, coming nose-to-nose with him, surprisingly threatening for the non-serial-killer that he was here. "You don't get out of here now, Petrelli, I swear I'll kill you myself."

All Peter's sullen rebelliousness collapsed, and he exhaled hard, swallowed hard, backed down. "All right," he said quietly. "I'm going."


	16. Lambda

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sad to say, nobody won the ten points—though a couple of you had a good call on the "X-Men" thing! I didn't realize how closely I was paralleling with the franchise, the movies especially. The show I was actually paying respects to was "Dark Angel"—specifically the last two episodes of the show's run. I know, it's been off the air for years, and it wasn't that popular a show to begin with—that's why I wanted to see if anyone would get the reference :). On a more fantastic note: 100 reviews! 50 story alerts! Have I ever told you guys that I love you? Because I do! Oh my _goodness_, I do!! The next person who gives you a hug—pretend that it's me. Because I would totally hug you if I could.

WARNING: Mildly creepy morbidity alert. Nothing serious, I'm just covering all the bases on this universe thing—which means the bad and the _really_ bad, too. Good luck :).

---

"Bye, honey," Hiro said, slinging his sword over his shoulder, pecking Audrey on the cheek.

"You'll be home for dinner, right?" she said reproachfully, fixing him with a stern eye.

"I promise," he said solemnly. "I won't even get shot or anything."

She allowed him a half-smile, and he took that as acceptance, encouragement; he closed his eyes and bent time.

---

Hiro opened his eyes to a strong sense of déjà vu.

He was standing on a familiar plateau, low-hanging clouds and hard-packed dirt. Below him in the valley was a familiar far-away square of buildings, fenced off, patrolled by far-away guards. In front of him were two more of him. Suddenly, he wasn't in a good mood anymore.

"Oh, hello," N said cheerfully, not looking terribly surprised to see him. "What do you need, Hiro?"

"Doesn't look like it was deliberate this time, N," H said shrewdly, seated on a rock with his sword on his knees, sharpening it. "Look at his face—he's really annoyed."

"You're absolutely right, I _am_ annoyed," Hiro said matter-of-factly. "This wasn't exactly where I was meant to end up. Let me guess: it's that whole space-time whirlpool you were telling me about?"

"Sorry," N shrugged. "It's something about both of us being here in the same dimension, sucks you other Hiros right in."

"Well, it's damn irritating," snapped Hiro. "You should really do something about that."

"Yeah, we'll get right on that," H said sardonically. "We just need to untangle the fabric of the universe, shouldn't be that hard."

"You messed it up, you get to fix it," Hiro retorted, turning to leave. "Wait—before I go. How's Peter doing?"

H and N exchanged glances. "He's, um," N said reluctantly. "He's not doing so well."

Now the image was in Hiro's head—the one of Peter and his mineshaft eyes, looking like he literally had nothing to live for. He remembered what Peter had looked like when he'd come out of that cell. It was not a pleasant thought. "Well then," he said. "Looks like you've got _two_ things to fix."

He closed his eyes and disappeared.

---

Hiro could taste it before he could see it—ashes in his mouth, the acid bite of chemical burn. He knew instantly that he'd gotten away from Gamma universe, but suddenly he almost wished he hadn't.

He opened his eyes on a dull grey scabland and ash with every breath, hollow empty burned land, devoid of sound or movement. He seemed to be standing on the edge of a town—the skeleton frames before him could be recognized as former buildings, homes and offices that looked as if they'd been burned up, eaten up. There wasn't any green even here outside the town—the grass was brittle brown-grey and there were no trees at all—and it got worse the father he looked inside, everything reduced to three shades of darkening grey. The sight made him gasp and the air made him choke.

With the tingling paranoia of a man entering a ghost town, he stepped inside the city limits. His gaze snapped from side to side, almost frantically, checking every twisted piece of metal and every corner, but his eyes found no one—not a single thing moving. His steps on the warped asphalt were terrifyingly loud in the silence, but the sounds disturbed nobody. There didn't seem to be anyone to disturb.

_What happened here?_ Hiro wondered with an urgency that surprised him, more unnerved by this destroyed empty town than he'd thought. _This place must have held a couple thousand people at least. Where _are_ they? Did they all die? Did they leave? _Why is there no noise? _There must be other cities nearby—why can't I hear them? _

Then suddenly there was a sound—a small one, a quiet metallic clink of displaced debris, the near-silent slide of a footstep. Hiro's whole body snapped around instantly, searching for the soundmaker, desperate for their presence in this empty hollow city. There was a figure in the alleyway, a retreating man half-swallowed by the shadows. The only person in the city.

Hiro followed in his best stealth mode, moving after him, sliding carefully along the destroyed buildings behind the man. He kept him in sight, not sure what he would do when he caught up to him—and then suddenly, he blinked and the man was gone. He blinked again, shaking his head, pushing away from the wall. _Where the hell did he go? _He walked up to where the man had been, searching doorways and crannies for his mysterious figure, but there was nothing. He spent another few seconds in bewilderment—and then something hit him.

The man came at him from the side, smashing him into a steel girder and pinning him instantly, professionally, forearm pressing into Hiro's throat. Hiro went still immediately, recognizing the serious intent of the arm against his neck, not even reaching for his sword even though every instinct told him to stab this man in the chest. Instead he focused on his attacker, focusing on the man's face—and even though he wasn't wearing horn-rimmed glasses, Hiro recognized him at once. It was Noah Bennet, thinner and harder-lined but still Bennet, still the toughest bastard in any world he'd seen so far.

"Why are you following me?" Bennet demanded, crushing Hiro harder into the steel pole.

"I'm not trying to hurt you!" Hiro explained with the all the air Bennet's arm was allowing him. "I'm not from this universe! I'm from a parallel dimension and I want to know about your world!"

"Well, that's a new one," Bennet growled. "You really expect me to buy that? Tell me the truth! Who are you? How long have you been here?"

"I'm not lying!" Hiro protested, becoming more and more aware how ludicrous his explanation sounded. "My name is Hiro Nakamura, I'm from another universe! I don't even know what happened here!"

Bennet released him and backed away quickly, looking at him as he would a rabid dog, crazy and possibly dangerous. "You leave me alone," he said forcefully, melting off into the shadows.

But Hiro wasn't about to let him go—Bennet was the only person he'd even _seen_ here, and he had to know what was going on. As Bennet moved sideways into an alley, Hiro came after him, grabbing his arm and slamming him into the same steel girder, his sword coming out of its sheath to rest at Bennet's throat. "Tell me what happened!" he demanded harshly, knowing he probably couldn't kill Noah Bennet but needing to convince the man he'd do it, in an instant, without thought.

"What do you mean, what happened?" Bennet snapped furiously back, pressing against Hiro's hold, trying to shove him away.

"What happened to this place? Why is everything dead?"

"What do you want me to say?" Bennet snarled, eyes flashing with a suppressed angry scream. "You want to hear about how the sky turned white and the trees turned black? You want to hear about the screams, and when people _stopped_ screaming? Do you want to hear about the way my daughter's flesh burned off her bones, about the way I looked for something to bury, even a single bone from the daughter I thought would never die?"

Hiro was floored by the hate in Bennet's voice, the words spat like they were poison he was trying to get rid of, like he was spitting them straight in Hiro's face. "Just tell me what happened," he said as levelly as he could manage.

"New York blew up," Bennet said, words clipped and icy, boiling fury under restraint. "They said North Korea did it. We fired at them. They fired back. Everything _died_." Suddenly, he shoved out, taking Hiro by surprise, sending him stumbling across a pile of debris. "You leave me alone or I'll kill you," he said, and he _meant _it.

"What makes you think I won't kill you first?" Hiro said, raising his sword, trying to keep Bennet back, who he was starting to suspect wasn't quite sane.

To his surprise and alarm, Bennet laughed—threw his head back and sent angry laughter into the gravestone-grey sky. "What makes you think I care?" he said. "You think I want to live like this? Without my wife, without my _children_? I've only got weeks to live as it is!"

"What do you mean?" Hiro said evenly, not lowering his sword.

"You think the bombs didn't kill me?" Bennet said, his voice dropping to almost a whisper, desperate, venom-touched. "Oh, they killed me, just not the same as everyone else. You want the story on me, Hiro Nakamura? I've got leukemia. I'm _dying_. I'm dying just the same as everything else on this godforsaken planet." He laughed again, his eyes sliding away from Hiro. "If you're telling the truth about not being from here, then you should leave. You don't want to be here. Just get out of here."

He turned around, watching Hiro for a minute as if daring him to follow, and walked away, the acid of his words still imprinted in Hiro's mind. He realized he was gripping his sword hilt so hard his fingers were going numb, knuckles white against the leather wrapping. He realized he was barely breathing, trying not to smell the acidity that he now knew was the smell of death and dying.

It was definitely time to go home.


	17. Alpha: Caffe Bianco

Peter was tired. He was tired in a way that was becoming all too familiar, bone-tired, soul-tired, tired enough to want to lay down and never get up again. He needed a break; he needed a vacation. He wanted white sand beaches and a clear conscience, no guilt and no memories. He wanted to forget—he wanted to lose and not care. He wanted everything to be black for a little while, blank and unthinking, hiding him from himself. _Do heroes get vacations?_ one part of him asked ironically. _You're not a hero_, the other side retorted instantly, and he believed it. He didn't know what he was, but he was sure it wasn't good.

The industrial grey of The Loft was not comforting—today it wasn't a home but a shut-in box, giving rise to an unemotional claustrophobia, a weary resignation that was becoming wearier with every second. He honestly wasn't sure how much of this he had left in him. How many more universes of black-hole despair could he add to his memories? How many more times could he look on bright careless happiness and wonder why his world couldn't be like what he saw? He was breaking down; he was dissolving in alternate realities. There wasn't going to be anything left of him soon but jealousy and pity, frustration and depression. He needed something real.

He was so far sunken into himself when he got home that it took him several minutes to realize there was someone else in The Loft. Slowly, his vision focused in on this new figure: a blond girl, sitting on a kitchen stool. Claire. "Hey there," he said with a passable imitation of pleasantness.

"Hi, Peter," she said, hopping off the stool, and for the first time, he noticed that she had something in her hands—a plate with a cake on it.

"What's that?" he asked, not understanding why she was here, what she was doing with a cake.

She smiled in that thousand-watt way she had, immediately making the room three shades brighter, lifting his spirits from borderline-suicidal to borderline-happy. "Happy birthday," she said simply, handing the cake over to him.

"It's not my—" he started protesting automatically, then stopped, thinking.

"It's August 22," she said decisively. "Happy birthday, Peter." She grinned at his confusion. "I knew you'd forget."

"You made me a cake," he said, raising his eyebrows.

"It's not very good," she said blithely. "We didn't have any eggs."

"I'm pretty sure you don't know what this cake means to me," he replied, staring down into the frosting curlicues and bent candles.

"Bad day?" she said, question made ironic by her surroundings, the steelgray of their sorry sad lives.

"You have no idea," he said, setting her cake down on the counter and flopping into a wicker chair.

"What's wrong?" she asked, still tuned in to his mental health after all the time they'd spent apart.

He tried a smile and failed, the smile snagging somewhere on the way and coming out twisted, barbed-wire bitter. "I don't know, Claire. It's just—sometimes I get so _tired_." His mouth said tired but his eyes said _dead_, said _done_said _not__ going to make it._

Claire looked into his burned-out brown eyes and she was suddenly afraid. By this point in her life, Claire Bennet wasn't afraid of much—she wasn't afraid of dying and she wasn't afraid of screwing up, she wasn't afraid of people and she wasn't afraid of the dark. She was afraid of this; she was afraid of losing him to the world that had been threatening to swallow him for years. She couldn't let him be swallowed or she'd go under herself—she was tethered to him in a way that neither of them had ever quite been able to understand, but what she did understand was that she needed him, and sometimes he needed her, too.

Now was one of those times. "Okay, that's it," she said briskly, grabbing his hands and pulling him up.

"Claire—what—?"

"It's your birthday, you aren't allowed to be depressed, it's a rule," she said authoritatively, snatching his coat from its hook and shoving it into his arms. "We're going out."

"Claire, you know we can't be out there," he protested. "We'll get caught."

"Birthday," she reminded him as if it were an irrefutable argument.

"But they'll—"

"Birthday!"

"You—"

"Birthday!"

He sighed in resignation and let her drag him out the door.

---

Noah Bennet had a decision to make, and it was a familiar one. It was the same decision he'd been making for years: stay or run. Ever since Claire had struck out on her own, he'd been faced with it less often, but now that she was back in his life he had accepted the choice as inevitable. Trouble followed Claire like a lost puppy, clung to her, chased her down—to love Claire was to deal with her undeserved baggage. He didn't mind so much—he considered it an even trade—but sometimes he wondered what it was about his little blond daughter that was a giant target sign for karma. It didn't seem quite fair.

A variation on the same old question: stay in the familiar concrete jungle of New York, hide in its cockroach crannies? Or run to rural cornfields and hope to blend, hope to be too small to be noticed? Which was the better option? Which would hide them longer, give them time to breathe?

He leaned back in his desk chair, massaging his temples—he could feel a serious, two-Motrin headache coming on. He'd just started to close his eyes, hoping for a flash of inspiration, when he got a beep of a cell phone instead, an insistent brittle ring that demanded his attention. With unusual annoyance, he snatched the phone from the desktop and flipped it open, snapping a terse "What?" into the receiver.

"Bennet," came Hana's voice from the other end, a quick bronzy alto. "I've got something you need to see." There was a corresponding beep from his computer, and when he looked, he saw a messaging box pop up, filling with numbers. "Those are a series of coordinates I've just pulled from Defense headquarters," she told him before he could ask. "They're labeled 'Claire Bennet'."

He was moving before she finished her last word, knocking his chair backwards. "Damn it!" he said. "They're tracking her."

"I would say that's a pretty reasonable conclusion," Hana confirmed. "Go get her before they do, tiger."

He was already out the door, grabbing his coat, moving with straight-line intent, his heart in his mouth and choking him. It was a special paternal panic that only Claire-in-danger could induce in him, a pulse-stopping screaming fear. He should have never let her out of his sight—he should never have let her visit Peter. Peter couldn't watch her like he could, couldn't know the danger that came at her from the side alleys, couldn't anticipate that danger _always _came for her, never failed to find her wherever she tried to hide. His steps were sharp with worry as he neared The Loft, his anxious scowl deepening the frown lines on his forehead. If she survived this, she was definitely grounded.

---

"Claire, do you know where you're going?" Peter asked pleasantly, watching her stride confidently through his city, navigating through the stream of pedestrians like Sacagawea leading him to the Pacific.

"I lived in New York for almost two years," she reminded him reproachfully. "I _do_ know where I'm going, as a matter of fact."

Peter shot an automatic glare at a skeezy taxi-driver type who checked her out as he passed; she didn't seem to notice that she was drawing stares, the lust and envy directed at the back of her pretty blond head. He was starting to think this was a bad idea—it was impossible for Claire to blend in—but she was growing up to be as stubborn as her father, and he never could win fights with Nathan. He knew he would just have to go along with whatever she had planned and keep an extra eye out, keep tensed for anything out of the ordinary.

"Here we are!" she announced, stopping in front of a small building with a demure sign above their heads.

"Caffé Bianco," he read aloud. "Claire, I'm not really a café kind of guy."

"Are you kidding?" Claire said, pushing the door open. "You mope around and wear black a lot, and you think you're better than everyone else. You'll fit right in."

"Ouch!" Peter said, stunned by her unexpected honesty. "Claire, ow! It's my birthday, don't you have to be _nice_ to me?"

"I am being nice," Claire said, sitting at a two-person table. "No one _else_ is going to tell you, they're all scared of you."

"What?" Peter said, sitting across from her. "Really? What do you mean?"

"I hate to break it to you, Peter," she said with a smile, "but you're kind of a badass."

He was about to respond, but the waitress had showed up, a pretty brown-haired girl with a pretty smile, menus in hand. "Good morning," she said, and her voice was a light, pleasant Irish brogue, almost rhythmic. "Can I get you two anything to drink?" As she handed the menu to Peter, she gave him a quick, appreciative once-over, so subtle he almost missed it.

"How about two hazelnut coffees?" Claire ordered comfortably, and the waitress shot Peter another look before walking off with the slightest bit more sway in her hips. "She _likes_ you," Claire said gleefully.

"She does not," Peter defended, propping up his menu to hide his face from her.

"Oh yes she does," Claire insisted. "I'm a girl, I know how we look at guys when we're into them."

A blond man walked into the café and sat down two table away, and Peter took the opportunity to end the conversation as she glanced up at him."So, what's good?" Peter said, determinedly studying his menu.

Claire grinned at him, shaking her head. "Any of the biscotti is great," she said, "and you should try the dipped pistachio cookies, and oh, don't forget to ask her to dinner."

"What?" Peter spluttered. "I'm not going to—I don't even know her name!"

"It's Caitlin," Claire informed him. He raised an eyebrow, and she said defensively, "What? It's on her nametag, don't you pay attention? She looks lonely and she's into you, and I _know_ you're lonely."

"Not going to happen, Claire."

She gave him a sharp, thoughtful look. "You know you could die any minute."

"Already have done," he responded with an ironic smile.

"Yeah, I know. You ought to try living, too."

"Ready to order?" said Caitlin, suddenly appearing beside them.

Peter started noticeably, staring guiltily down at his menu. "Um, yeah," he said, randomly picking the first thing that he saw. "I'll have the dark chocolate torte."

"And I'll have the tiramisu," Claire said, eyeballing him hard, trying to force him into action with her stare alone.

"All right, I'll get that right out to you," Caitlin said, taking Claire's menu and then Peter's, her fingers carefully brushing his and lingering a half-second too long, stuck.

He made the mistake of looking up at her, and they locked eyes—and she winked at him. He responded from some simpler part of his life, a trigger-automatic flirtation: his fingers curled around hers for an instant and then released, and he gave her a quick smile, a 'yes'. Her own smile popped a little brighter and she walked away happy, a little more bounce in her step.

"Well, well," Claire said proudly. "You've still got it."

"I don't know what you mean," he said, not meeting her eyes.

"I saw that," she grinned. "Told you she was into you—now go ask her out."

"What? No!"

Caitlin was back at the counter, arranged so she was exactly in his line of sight, moving with the extra bit of care that said she knew he was watching her. "If you don't go ask her, I'm going to ask her for you," Claire said, starting to stand up, knowing it would catalyze him into action.

"Okay, okay!" Peter said, jumping up. "Calm down, I'll do it!"

He felt a little nervous as he approached her, a little rusty; he remembered when this had all been so easy for him—he liked a girl and he went after her, it was as easy as that. Things were more complicated now.

Claire watched him with a strangely maternal pride; she didn't usually get to play the role of the pusher, the protector. He was good at lying, good at coverup—it was only lately that she could see through him and know she had to help, had to drag him to happiness when he only wanted to curl up and disappear. She saw him lean against the counter, unconscious of how good he looked in his grey sweater and helpless smile, and she knew Caitlin was as good as caught—she'd seen that smile at work, it was one of her own secret weapons, and it was surefire. She shook her head and turned back to her coffee—and then looked back, her eye caught by an unexpected flash of metal.

It was the blond man two tables away—he was moving, pulling something from inside his jacket, and it was a gun, and suddenly they were in very, very big trouble. She saw him get the gun in his hand, point it at Peter, and there was no more time to do anything but scream, so she _did_. "Peter!" she yelled at the top of her lungs, leaping up and grabbing the man's arm with the fearlessness of invincibility.

Peter's head came up and his body went into automatic defense, shoving Caitlin down and scanning the room for danger. He saw the man with the gun—he saw Claire grab his sleeve, saw the man turn and shoot her, straight in the chest.

His first thought was _He's killed her _and the second was _Wait, no—she's fine_. But then he saw the cords running from Claire to the gun, the electricity buzzing between them with all the force a handheld taser could channel. He saw it and she felt it, felt it tear through her too fast and too nonstop to heal out, saw her vision go red and then purple and then grey. And then black.

---

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I threw Caitlin into this chapter because she was a new character to work with, but I've already gotten some feedback to the effect that the "Heroes" audience hates Peter's Irish lady-love. I don't have any strong feelings about her one way or the other--tell me if you want to keep her or write her out, I'll basically do whatever my readers want me to.

Also, I've seen something I want to start doing: some authors, I've noticed, reply to every review they get. Now, as you know, I love my reviews with a firey burning passion :) but apparently I'm an ungrateful jerk, because it simply never occurred to me to thank you guys personally. So don't get freaked out if you start getting PMs from me--I just want to say thanks, nothing creepy.


	18. Alpha: Downspiral

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Well, the vote came out overwhelmingly in favor of keeping Caitlin around. Hooray for democracy :). It wasn't going to be a huge storyline, anyway, I just thought Peter seemed lonely, you know? Anyway, thanks for all the feedback, I love you guys like crazy!

---

Peter saw Claire get hit by the taser—he saw the electricity shudder through her, he saw her fall. Her vision went black and his went red, fury that they'd hurt her, fury at the way she fell like a cut-strings puppet with her cornsilk hair all over her face. He had self-control; he _did_, he had to or he wouldn't have lived this long. But there were still lines for crossing, and there were buttons for pushing, and there were things that made him crazy. This bastard didn't know what he'd done.

Peter started toward the blond man with power slicing up through his veins, volcanic uncontrolled, and he saw the only other two café customers stand, pulling guns from their belts and he _should have known_, should have watched harder. He reached the blond man before his colleagues could do a thing, and the man brought up his taser gun, shot it at Peter. He swatted it aside like a bothersome insect and kept coming, threw out his hand and sent the man into the wall with a sickening force, bending in the drywall, rolling the man's eyes back in his head.

He heard a hiss of release behind him and snapped his body around, snatching the wires of a second taser gun out of the air as the attached barbs flew over his shoulder, yanking the gun out of the woman's hands and making her stumbling forward. He grabbed her arm and sent flash-freeze coldness out through his fingers, icing her over like a frozen lake, frost closing over her face and chest. A foot lashed out from the last agent and caught him in the knee, sending him to the floor, and a white-hot metal pain bit into his shoulder. This man wasn't playing around with tasers and tranquilizers—Peter felt two more bullets bite into his back before he managed to roll out of the line of fire. The bullets healed out as he moved, hurting as they healed, nearly crippling the right side of his body until they mended themselves, suddenly painless and fixed.

He came back to his feet with a vengeance—he threw a hand out to the nearest black table and sent it smashing into the man's legs, pinning him to the wall, and then with another thought, another flick of his fingers, he set it on fire.

He heard a scream behind him and he turned—he saw Caitlin half-hiding behind her counter, looking horrified with one hand over her mouth. "Get _out_," he yelled at her. "Get out, go!" She was quick to obey, sliding out from behind the counter and scrabbling for the doorknob with fear of death and fear of him on her soft pretty face.

There was another scream to his left as the flames began to catch onto the man's clothes, his skin, and Peter had a sudden vivid sense of _What have I done_? Just as he began to, for the first time in a long time, feel guilty, there was a sudden sharp pain in his back, a puncture. _Bullets can't hurt me_, he thought, turning to identify his attacker, but it didn't _feel_ like a bullet, and he was starting to get dizzy. Sure enough, the blond man, looking rumpled and bloody but conscious, was holding a thin-muzzled tranquilizer gun, and his dart was pumping drugs into Peter's back. _Damn_, he thought, and he collapsed.

The blond man grabbed onto a table and pulled himself up, favoring his left ankle, limping over to Peter and Claire's unconscious bodies. He nudged Peter with his foot, shooting a critical glance at the frozen statue of his coworker. He pulled a slim silver phone from his jacket pocket and flipped it open, wincing at the pain the simple movement caused. "Yeah, hello, this is Anders," he said. "I've got them, I'm at—ahhh!"

His conversation was cut off by a scream as three bullets punched into his chest, killing him instantly, dead before he hit the white tile. Mr. Bennet shot the man one more time to be sure, and then lowered his gun, rushing to Claire's body, checking her pulse, lifting her head—and suddenly she was conscious, coming back to gasping frantic life, her eyes wide with panic and then relief, as she realized who it was. "_Dad!"_ She threw her arms around him and hugged him hard enough to seriously constrict his breathing.

"Don't you ever do that again," he scolded, hugging her back.

"What, get attacked in a coffeeshop?" she said, managing a watery half-smile. "But Dad, all the cool kids are doing it."

"I don't know where you got that smart mouth," he replied as he pulled her up. "Listen, we need to leave before Defense figures out what happened to their men. Let's get you two out of here."

---

Peter regained consciousness in the back of a taxi, staring up at the car's roof with little recollection of the last hour. "Oh good, you're awake," Claire said, her face coming into view as he sat slowly up. "We were starting to get worried."

"You should have woken up the same time as Claire did," Mr. Bennet said with a concerned frown. "Your regenerative abilities should have matched hers—do you have any idea what's wrong?"

"No—I don't know—" Peter said muzzily, rubbing the back of his hand across his eyes. "I'm just—tired."

"You look _dead_," Claire agreed. "We're taking you home, and you're going straight to bed, right?"

The events of the afternoon were beginning to trickle back into his memory: the café—the attack—the tasers hitting Claire. Suddenly he was _mad_, all exhaustion swept aside by a flash flood of anger and indignation, a helpless fury at being attacked in _his _city, on his _birthday_ of all things, at always being chased and never being safe. He ducked his head so the Bennets couldn't see his reaction—they were far too level-headed to understand, even Claire. "Yeah," he lied. "I'm going to sleep for a week."

"I'm taking Claire to Micah Sanders," Bennet told him, keeping his voice low so that the taxi driver couldn't eavesdrop. "She's being tracked by Defense somehow, so I'm going to have him sweep her for bugs. I assume they put something in her while she was in custody. After that, though—we're leaving."

Peter's head snapped up, blindsided. "What?"

"Peter, we have to," Claire explained pleadingly, seeing the anger in his eyes and slightly misinterpreting it. "We thought we could be safe here for a little while, but obviously we aren't. We need to move on."

"I understand," Peter said, staring fixedly at his hands.

"Peter—"

"I said I understand!" he shouted. The driver's gaze flicked back momentarily, curious; he hadn't meant to yell so loud. "I'll miss you," he said finally.

Her arms went around him before he could react, a swift tight hug with her hair falling in his face. "I'll miss you too," she said.

The taxi came to a stop, and when he looked out the window he knew there wasn't time to say anything else. "This is your stop," Bennet said blandly, almost gently.

Peter didn't respond, just got out—slammed the door with a little too much force—stomped up the stairs to the Loft like he hadn't since he'd been sixteen.

Hiro looked surprised to see him burst in like a thunderstorm, his expression black and his eyes bloodshot. "Peter!" he exclaimed, pausing his work on the timeline, strings bunched in one hand. "You look terrible!"

"Thanks, you're sweet," snapped Peter. "I'm going out."

"Out? Out where?"

"Where the hell do you think? I'm going to do another universe."

"Peter," Hiro said, alarmed, "when was the last time you slept? You cannot go out like this."

"Don't _tell_ me what I can't do," said Peter, swinging around to fix Hiro with a truly frightening look.

Hiro opened his mouth to protest, but then something caught his eye—a splash of red. A cut on Peter's leg. "Peter," he said. "Your leg. There's a cut on your leg. _How_ is there a cut on your leg, why hasn't it healed?"

Peter gave the gash a cursory glance. "Don't know and hey, don't really care. I'm going _now_."

"That is _not_ a good idea. Don't you understand? Your body is shutting down! If you go out there this drained, you're going to get yourself killed! How do you know you can even still teleport?"

"Well, I guess we'll _see_," Peter spat. "What's wrong with you, Hiro? You're the one that's always pushing this save-the-universe idea! I know I've fought it sometimes, but you know what? I am _ready_ to be saved. I'm ready for everything to be fixed. I want to be able to take a _walk_ in my own city and not worry about being shot at. I want to look outside and not want to die. I want to take my niece to a damn coffeeshop and not have to look out for government assassins! I am just—so—_sick of it_."

"Peter," Hiro said as calmly as he could, terrified at the look in Peter's eye, the muscle tension that said he was about to make a jump. "Hey, come on. Think about this."

"No," Peter replied instantly. "If I wait, you'll talk me out of it. Or just knock me out. No, I'm leaving."

And he closed his eyes and disappeared.


	19. Mu: Crash

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This chapter is sort of a birthday present for angeldevilme. Hope you like it—happy birthday!

---

It _hurt_ for Peter to jump this time—he could literally feel himself tearing out of the fabric of his universe, slamming forward, punching a hole in a new one. It hurt so badly he wanted to scream, but he couldn't, not yet. He could feel every cell in his body pulling apart, and he was bursting, ripping to pieces. He could hear Hiro's voice in his head saying "I told you so."

Then there was a small _pop_, and he was free, a new universe shading in before his eyes. The pressure released. He'd made it; he'd won.

This new universe was very loud, very noisy and bright, a large open room packed with loud, smiling people. He seemed to be on the edge of the crowd, near a fold-up refreshment table—nobody seemed to have noticed him appear, too busy smiling and laughing and social-climbing to look further than their own noses.

At first he couldn't grasp it, couldn't get a handle on this unfamiliar dimension, but then he saw two things. One was Claire—she was at the other end of the room in a knot of people, smiling like the sun with her hair elaborately curled around her face. Then, behind her, there was a huge banner that proclaimed HAPPY 18TH BIRTHDAY CLAIRE in sloppy acrylic paint. Suddenly, he felt very guilty; he was gate-crashing her party with unpleasant intent—he came with anger and an overhanging depression. She didn't deserve that—and he certainly knew how it felt to have his birthday ruined. He didn't want to see her smile disappear.

He made a decision. He glanced quickly around him to make sure no one was paying attention to him—they weren't, of course—and then he made himself invisible, shading out to transparency. It took a lot more effort than usual, and for an instant he felt dizzy, the world sliding together like watercolor paints—he was so _tired_, his eyes burning and his mind sluggish. He just wanted to lay down on the floor and never get up.

Then the world came back into focus; he shook it off. He'd lived thorough worse, hadn't he? _Haven't I? _How long _had_ he been awake? Two days? Three? He couldn't remember. It didn't matter. He had work to do.

He slid into the crowd, invisible—heading for Claire.

---

"Brody, get me a drink," Claire said, not looking at him, her eyes fixed on the dark-haired boy in front of her.

"But—" he started to protest, disliking the way she was looking at the other boy.

_Now_ her gaze was on him—she turned and pinned him with a smile that said she was about to get very angry. "Get me," she said sweetly, eyes glittering with warning, "a _drink_."

The older boy shot her an appreciative glance as Brody stalked unhappily away. "So is he your boyfriend, or what?" he asked, eyes lingering on her low-cut shirt.

"Not really," she said, looking at him through her eyelashes. "Do you want him to be?"

"Hell no!" he said with a smile.

She laughed coyly, twining her fingers into his, giving him the go-ahead—then suddenly, she froze, staring over his shoulder. There was a man standing not twenty feet away from her, all black and leather and terrifying expression, broodingly dangerously dark, _watching_ her. She gasped and pulled away from her new catch.

"What's wrong?" he asked, raising his eyebrows at her outburst.

"That man—!" she said, pointing. She stopped—and blinked. He was gone. "He was there, there was someone there," she said vehemently.

"Sure there was, Claire," he said with a small smile. "Sure there was."

---

Peter swore under his breath, double-checking that he was invisible again. She'd seen him, he knew she had, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He was just tired—he felt like everything was sliding out of his grasp, impossible to hold onto. Even his vision was going occasionally blurry, and his eyes felt like they were filled with sand. Perhaps Hiro had been right after all. Well, he'd sleep—when he finished this universe. Maybe.

So far, he wasn't terribly thrilled with Lambda Universe; once he'd gotten close enough to hear Claire, she's struck him as petty and adolescently self-absorbed, playing on her charm and prettiness to manipulate everything around her. He wondered how she'd grown up like this—what was different in her life that could have turned her into a two-bit bitch? He had his eyes out for Mr. Bennet, but so far, no luck. There were so many people in the room, so much loud teenage chaos, that he didn't know if he'd _ever _find the man. He'd just have to stick with Claire and observe what he could—and try to restrain himself from slapping her senseless.

He turned to watch her again, and found her with her arm around the back of some boy's neck, smiling up at him like a spider. He exhaled sharply, frustrated with his niece's doppelganger, but suddenly he found himself caught by her eyes. He'd glanced at them before and they hadn't seem different—big and green, attention-catching—but now that he looked a little closer, he was struck by how _hollow_ they seemed, utterly sparkless. This Claire Bennet was not a happy girl.

A passing party guest jostled Claire, and he saw her fall into a nearby table. She cried out in surprised pain as she collided with the table's corner, slicing open the back of her hand. She instantly turned on the girl who had bumped her, yelling, "What is your _damage_? Why don't you watch where you're going?"

The quarterback he'd seen her with before pulled her away, trying to calm her, but Peter wasn't paying attention to them anymore. He was staring at her cut—it was still there. It wasn't healing. He kept watching it, waiting—waiting—and nothing. Blood beaded on her skin and began to trickle down her wrist.

_Well_, he thought perplexedly. _This is a new one. _

---

Mr. Bennet nearly tripped over Zach on his way back into the party, sending the boy stumbling back from the exit. "Zach?" he asked. "Leaving already?"

Zach fidgeted with the cuffs of his sweatshirt, not meeting Mr. Bennet's eyes. "Yeah, I thought I'd better go. I've, um—got a lot of homework," he lied unconvincingly.

Mr. Bennet studied him for a moment, feeling inexplicably upset, watching the boy who had once been Claire's best friend slink out of her party looking like a kicked dog. "You know you're always welcome here, Zach," he said.

Finally Zach met his eyes, smiling with a strange mixture of sadness and pity. "Don't kid yourself, Mr. Bennet." Before Mr. Bennet could respond to this unexpected bluntness, he continued, "and don't worry about me—I know my place. It's just—not here."

Mr. Bennet moved aside wordlessly, letting him through the door. He knew truth when he heard it. He respected it—he just didn't like it.

---

Claire went to bed early.

It was just one of those nights where she was alone and couldn't stand it, where the mirror across from her bed was drawing her gaze, too close not to look at, too strange to look away—the image of herself reflected in all its carefully concealed chaos. It was her birthday; it wasn't fair, but there it was—loneliness. _Nobody who talks to me tells me the truth. Nobody who smiles at me looks me in the eye. Nobody __says__ anything that means anything. Nobody trusts me. Nobody wants me to speak. Happy birthday, Claire Bennet_.

She wasn't into drugs or alcohol—she'd tried them both and found them boring. She could feel the temporariness of the buzz even as she was buzzing, could see the problems still waiting just under the oblivion, barely under the surface and waiting to come up for air. The only thing that really blacked her out was sleep. She never had bad dreams—she didn't remember, not when she slept. So, she slept too much. _Call it an addiction. Or therapy. Whatever. _

As she fell asleep, she swore she could feel something brush her cheek—it felt the same as when her Dad used to kiss her goodnight when she was younger. He didn't do that anymore, but she remembered the way his lips felt against her skin, and she could swear she felt it, but when she glanced up there was nobody there. Even so, she could swear she heard somebody say, "Happy birthday, Claire."

---

Peter moved away from Claire as quietly as he could, making sure his invisibility stayed up full-force—the last thing he wanted to was to appear suddenly, a strange man in her bedroom. He'd just wanted to say goodbye before he left. He had to go soon—things were starting to blur together again, swimming like a Sahara mirage before his eyes, like being drunk but less coherent. He could tell he was shutting down, and it was time to admit it: he needed sleep _now_. But it was her birthday, and he couldn't leave without first seeing her safe; she might be a monster in this universe, a fake-smiling scheming hollow-eyed bitch—but she was still Claire. Even if all she shared with his niece was her face, he couldn't separate the two, and that meant that he had to care about this girl.

He swayed a little on the spot, grabbing the windowsill to steady himself, shaking his head to clear his vision. _Whoa there. Okay. Time to go. _He shot Claire one last look, then closed his eyes and flung himself outward.

Nothing happened.

He felt dizzy; he felt like the floor was moving under him, sliding up to trip him, his vision twisting kaleidoscopic. _No. No, no, no, no, no, no, no! This is not happening!_ He tried again—he squeezed his eyes shut and _shoved_ himself outward with all his strength.

The world collapsed in around him and went black.

---

Claire heard something fall onto her floor, a dull heavy _thud_ on her floorboards. She sat up straight in bed and threw a wild glance over to where the noise had sounded. Her breath caught in her throat—it was _him_. There, lying on her floor, was the man from the party, the terrifying dark man in a broken heap in her bedroom.

She screamed.


	20. Mu: Under the Glass

Mr. Bennet woke up the instant his daughter started screaming—it was still hardwired into him, the father-automatic instinct getting him out of bed and halfway down the hall before he even realized he was awake. He burst into her room and found her out of her bed, pressed up against her closet door, screaming her voice out with honest, palpable terror at the unfamiliar figure slumped on her floor. As he moved toward her, his wife came through the door behind him, getting a look at the strange man in her daughter's bedroom and letting out a little scream of her own.

Mr. Bennet immediately changed course, letting Sandra deal with their hysterical daughter. "Claire?" he heard her say. "Claire, honey, are you all right? Talk to me, sweetie—what happened?"

"He just _appeared_," Claire sobbed as he knelt beside the intruder, rolling him over to see his face (unfamiliar), to see if he was conscious (no). "I saw him at the party, he was just _watching_ me, and I was going to sleep and I turned over and he was just _there_! I don't know where he came from, I didn't hear him, nothing until he was just _there_…_God_!" she buried her face in her mother's shoulder and continued crying, nearly hyperventilating, panicked out-of-control.

Mr. Bennet's first inclination was to throttle this man, the out-of-nowhere predator who had made his daughter scream, but he controlled his anger—he was very good at that—kept calm so he could keep them calm. "Sandra, stay here with Claire," he commanded, dragging the man up by the back of his collar. "_Stay here_, I'll call the police."

Of course, that was a lie—but he had suspicions that they couldn't see. He hauled the man's limp body to the entryway closet, dropping him unceremoniously on the floor while he found his briefcase, opened it, rifled through until he came up with a small, packaged white square. He pushed the man up against the wall while he opened the packet, grabbing his unresponsive lifeless hand and pressing one finger against the pad. Immediately, the pad began to turn red, spreading like a bloodstain. Just as he'd thought—a Special.

_Good_, he thought vindictively, letting the unconscious body slide to the floor. He didn't want the police to take this man—he wanted to deal with the bastard himself.

Now that his suspicions were confirmed, his course of action was easy, his movements efficient and routine. He fished a zip-tie out of his briefcase and wrapped it quickly around the man's wrists, binding his hands behind his back. He grabbed him by his jacket again and shoved him inside the closet, folding his motionless limbs up into the small space and slamming the door closed.

He stood and flipped his phone open, feeling much better now for having shut someone in a closet. "It's Bennet," he said crisply. "I've got a Special on-site at my house, I need a pickup as soon as possible." A pause. "Fine. Good. Just get her in here. I'll be waiting."

---

"Noah, sit with your daughter a minute," Sandra entreated when he reappeared at the bedroom door. "I need to go check on Lyle."

"All right," he agreed as Sandra hurried into the hallway, but he didn't move—stayed leaning on Claire's doorframe, not taking the last step into her room. "How are you, Claire Bear?" he asked.

"I'm _fine_, Daddy," she said instantly, pulling her blankets closer around her. "I just freaked a little, I'm sure you can understand why."

"I would have understood a lot more freaking out than this," he said calmly. "Are you sure you're okay, honey? You've just been through a trauma."

"Did you call the police?" she asked.

"Yes, of course I did," Bennet lied, straightfaced.

"And did they take him to jail?"

"Yes, they did."

Her voice hardened, crystallizing. "And is it really horrible in jail?"

He paused before answering, disconcerted at the cut-sapphire edge in her eyes. "Yes, Claire, it is."

She turned her gaze away, snuggling down to sleep—_how _she could sleep, he had no idea, but there was a stone-cold quality growing into his daughter that reminded him horribly of himself. He didn't want her to be him when she grew up. "_Good_," she said vindictively, rolling over to face the wall.

He opened his mouth to say something, but then realized that he didn't have anything to say. Instead, he stared at her for another few moments, making sure she wasn't about to go crazy or burst into flames, do anything dramatic—then he turned her light off and quietly shut the door.

---

Jessica Sanders was sprawled across his couch when he went back downstairs, long legs crisscrossed comfortably over his furniture, perfectly relaxed. "Hey there, Bennet," she said lazily as he came into the living room, flicking her eyes up at him.

"How'd you get into my house?" he asked pleasantly, voice just bordering on hostile.

"Don't ask, don't tell," she purred. "So where's our little freak?" Wordlessly, he opened the closet door, and Peter slid out, still very unconscious. "You stuffed him in the closet?" she said sardonically. "Wow. No, I mean really, wow. _Cute_, though, look at this kid!" She nudged him with her foot, looking interested. "Freaking adorable."

"Just get him there in one piece," Bennet said with a frosty smile, turning back to the stairs. "Taking him apart is _my_ job."

---

The beeping was what woke Peter up—the steady subtle sound, repeating, pulsing like a heartbeat, _beep_ pause _beep _pause _beep_. When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw _was_ a heartbeat—a monitor not two feet away from him, a blue line beating out his pulse. _Hospital_, was his first guess, watching the monitor blip along far slower than he would have expected his heart to be beating. The second thing he saw was Mr. Bennet.

Noah Bennet was standing beside his bed, staring down at him in that specialized, coolly terrifying way that Peter had come to appreciate in his own universe. He and Bennet were easy allies now, but they certainly hadn't always been, and his body reacted automatically to the sight of the man standing over him, jerking violently upward until it met restraints, stopping him from sitting up, stopping him from moving at all. _Right, then_, he thought wildly. _Not a hospital_. He knew Bennet; he knew what he'd been. The chances of him retaining his Company-serving, Special-hunting ways in an alternate universe were _very _good. He knew what had happened here.

"Hello," Mr. Bennet said, his voice perfectly matching his expression—white-marble smooth, giving nothing away. "You've been asleep for a very long time."

Peter didn't bother with any of the obvious questions—_who are you where am I what are you going to do with me__—_he knew the answers already. "How long?" he asked instead, pulling reflexively at the wrist restraints.

"Three days," Mr. Bennet said, crossing his arms. "You must have been very tired."

"Yeah, well, I'm sure the drugs didn't have anything to do with it," Peter said, eyeing the IV that was running into his arm, hating not having any idea what they were pumping into him.

"Your body was completely worn out, on the point of total collapse. We didn't want you dying. Not yet."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Could you _be_ any more ominous? Come _on_."

"I assure you I could be," Mr. Bennet said tautly, real anger seeping onto his face. He planted a hand on the side of Peter's bed and leaned over, purposefully threatening. "Do you want to tell me what you were doing in my daughter's bedroom?"

"Damn," Peter said sadly, remembering another very important fact about Noah Bennet—his indissoluble guarddog protection of Claire, his fierce defensive love for her. That was _not_ going to work in his favor. "That looked pretty bad, huh?"

"Understatement."

"Well, just up front, I'll tell you that I wasn't stalking her or assaulting her or robbing your house."

"Of course you weren't," Mr. Bennet said calmly. "I'm sure there's some other sort of explanation for you ending up on her bedroom floor and, oh, I forgot—following her and watching her at her party."

"Um, yeah," Peter said, his hopes sinking lower and lower, a balloon losing helium. "I can explain that one, too."

"Why don't you do that," Bennet said, eyes glittering behind glass.

"Let's see," Peter said with an attempt at a smile. "Where to begin? Well, my name's Peter Petrelli, and I've teleported here from an alternate dimension in order to catalog your universe's timeline and use it to piece together an all-encompassing map of space and time so that I can find a way to save the world." Mr. Bennet stared at him for a moment, then gave him an expressive eyebrow-raise. "You think I'm kidding, but I'm not," Peter said wryly.

Mr. Bennet smiled slightly, the kind of smile that said he acknowledged a joke and did _not _think it was funny. "You're serious."

"As a heart attack."

"You say you…teleported here?"

"That's what I said," Peter sighed, nearly out of hope by now.

"Well, that's interesting, Mr. Petrelli," Bennet said, circling around the other side of the bed, "because I've been doing this for awhile, and I've _met_ teleporters. Met quite a few of them, in fact, and I know what their DNA sequence looks like." He turned back to Peter, fixed him with an interrogator's spotlight stare, trying to pry a lie open. "And I have to say, your DNA looks nothing like theirs. So, I figure you're lying to me—but you know what? I've met a lot of liars, too." His hand suddenly lashed out and grabbed Peter's chin, forcing him to look him in the eye. "And I know how to deal with them."

Peter jerked his head away, increasingly annoyed and starting to panic just the smallest bit. He wasn't sure how he was going to get Bennet to believe him—wasn't sure how he _could_. "Bite me," he said, in lieu of any kind of plausible response to give the man.

"Tell me what you are, Mr. Petrelli," Bennet said, unfazed. "Tell me what you can do."

"What, you've never seen an empath before?"

"A what?"

"Look it up," Peter spat, "and while you're doing that, here's a question for you, Noah Bennet." Mr. Bennet's head came up, surprised to hear his name, alarmed. "That's right, I know who you are—and I know who your daughter is. _Not_ because I'm some kind of psycho stalker, but because I know her in _my_ universe. I know her and I know you too—we're friends. She doesn't really seem the same to me in this dimension, but I've kind of come to expect that. Here's where I get to the question—in my universe, Claire is one of us. She's a freak—she's a Special. Tonight I saw her get cut and she didn't heal, so, Noah Bennet, I want to know—what happened to her power?"

It had been a long shot, guessing that Bennet had had something to do with Claire's normality, but as soon as he'd said it, Peter knew he'd guessed right. Bennet flinched slightly, the muscles in his face tightening at Peter's words, his mouth snapping shut around a secret. He turned around abruptly, picking something up from the counter—a syringe. "I don't know if you're from another universe, Peter Petrelli," he said. "Personally, I think you're just crazy, but stranger things have happened in my life. There's a lot that I will believe—there's a lot of things I will take chances with." He turned back around, tapping the now-full syringe under the light, checking for bubbles. "My daughter is not one of them."

He walked back over to Peter's bed, looking calmer now, fully in control of the situation. "If you truly are from somewhere else, then there's something I should probably explain to you," he said sardonically. "All of you freaks? You…Specials? We know how to deal with you here." He tapped the syringe lightly against his temple, smiling. "We've got a cure. We know how to make you _normal_ again—how to put you out of your misery. One simple injection and you can go on with your lives, go about living without endangering everyone around you."

Peter stared fixedly at the syringe, pulling as far away from it as his restraints would allow. He'd never thought about it before—losing his powers. It had never even occurred to him; it would be like considering cutting off an arm, and about as crippling. He didn't even have to think it over—he knew instantly that he didn't want to happen, wanted to keep his powers with all their baggage. He needed them—without them he was a hospice nurse, a small grey nobody. "You know, I agree, these abilities can be a bitch sometimes," he said a little wildly, words coming too quickly, "but overall, I think I'd like to keep them. Really." Mr. Bennet just smiled, bending over him with the syringe. "Come on, man, let's talk about this. _Really_, I am just fine with these abilities, I'm not hurting anyone! Hey, _come on_—_please_!"

He felt the needle pierce his arm—felt something rushing into his veins, flooding them with liquid. Darkness rushing into his vision. Dizziness—nausea—then black.


	21. Mu: Internal Error

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to everyone for bearing with my sucker-punch of a cliffhanger. Sorry about that—I swear your questions will be answered within the first two sentences of this chapter…don't kill me :)

---

When Jessica came into the cell, she saw Bennet bending over their captive, just pulling a syringe out of his arm. "You didn't," she said, flatly horrified.

"Of course I didn't," was Mr. Bennet's calm response. "That's a tranquilizer. He's much too interesting to neutralize yet—I've never seen a DNA sequence like this in my life—but there's no harm in making him think we _have_ cured him. Keeps him from trying anything."

"Right," Jessica smirked. "Don't want another Meredith Gordon incident on our hands."

"Do me a favor," Bennet said, throwing the empty syringe into a trash can. "Look up 'empath', would you? See if anyone knows what it means."

"What am I, your intern? Do it yourself." She walked over to the bed, knowing it irritated him for her to be around the other Specials, hoping she could get him to explode. "So do we know who our mystery man is yet?"

"He had no ID on him, nothing," Bennet mused, thinking out loud, hardly aware of her. "He says his name is Peter Petrelli, but I'm not sure I believe him. He's been feeding me quite a line."

Jessica recoiled at the name, hard enough for whiplash, looking back at the man with a whole new perspective. _Petrelli?_ _You're _kidding. Now that she took a good look at him, though, she could see the resemblance, and she sincerely wished she couldn't. "He's not lying," Niki said.

Mr. Bennet stopped what he was doing, turned around and actually looked at her for the first time. "Really," he said skeptically. "And how do you know that?"

She gave him a sidelong glance, not willing to meet his infamous flat stare. "Used to date his brother." She reached out and touched a light finger to Peter's face, slid it down the side of his cheek, almost affectionate. "Look at that jawline—he's a Petrelli, all right."

"Well, you're remarkably useful today," Bennet said with mild, pleased surprise. "Where's Niki?"

A frosty silence. "I _am_ Niki."

Bennet paused—smiled. "Awkward," he said, and turned back to the monitors.

---

Mr. Bennet stood outside the office door for a long time, trying to force himself to knock. He didn't get along with very many people at The Company; that was to say, he got along with exactly who he felt he needed to get along with and openly despised the rest. They knew he hated them and they thought him a snob—they felt intimidated by him, and he thought them useless. Noah Bennet and The Company had the comfortable relationship of an old married couple: occasional bickering, but mostly just silence, two people sitting side-by-side on a couch with nothing to say. He didn't go looking for trouble, but he wouldn't get out of the way if it came at him. Most people avoided him, because they saw the look in his eye and the way he walked and knew he wouldn't stop, would run them straight over and not look back, never lose a moment's sleep.

However, he still had his pride, and it made him reluctant to ask anyone for help—the illusion around here was that he knew everything, and he didn't mind the impression. He didn't much like admitting that he needed help. But Bennet was nothing if not practical, and pride was something he could deal with; he knocked on the door.

"Come in," came a voice from inside the office, and he opened the door on Mohinder Suresh.

Mohinder wasn't alone, and his guest made Bennet sigh quietly to himself. It was bad enough to have to come to Suresh, their resident self-righteous prodigy, with his lookdowns and his naiveté, but there in his office was Claude Rains. The man's permanent smirk curled wider at the sight of Bennet and his clenched teeth, reminding him forcefully why he couldn't stand his former partner.

"Well. Noah Bennet," Mohinder said smarmily. "Do you, ah—_need_ something?"

"Yes," Bennet said with a voice like frostbite, hoping his eyes were communicating his homicidal thoughts. "I need your help." He threw a pointed glance at Claude.

"Oh, don't mind me," Claude said blithely. "I might be able to help you, Bennet. Field experience and all that," he said, and his expression said _remember when we were partners. Remember when you were green and I was wise and I knew everything. _

"I doubt it," Bennet replied, turning back to Suresh. "We have a new Special in custody, and his DNA sequence is giving us some trouble—we can't seem to identify his abilities. He happened to mention the word 'empath' this morning, and I wondered if you'd ever heard it."

Mohinder's face went pretty-boy vacant, switching from sharp scientist to blank dead weight as he sometimes did. _God, I miss this kid's father_, he thought, feeling a headache coming on. _Well, it's clear I wasted a trip. _Before Mohinder had a chance to be unhelpful, though, Claude jumped in. "An empath?" he said interestedly. "Been awhile since I've seen one of _those_. Where'd you get him, Bennet?"

"You've heard of them?"

"I want to see him," Claude said, as matter-of-factly as a child would ask to go to the zoo. Just a bug under the glass—not a person.

"Out of the question."

"I want to see him or you're getting nothing from me," Claude said, leaning back in his chair.

"Not going to happen," Bennet maintained, leveling an ironclad look at Claude—nobody pushed him around, not a former partner, nobody.

"I forgot what a stubborn bastard you are," Claude said inscrutably, matching him look for look. "All right, then—I'll tell you what you need to know, and you can take the hell that you're walking into."

"That bad?" Bennet said, amused.

Claude grinned with an edge, as if he was already seeing him fail. "You have no idea."

---

When Peter woke up, he didn't feel any different. _I thought I would feel it_, he thought, staring at the grained grey ceiling. _I thought I would feel it right down to my bones. I felt it the instant I had it, I should feel it when it's gone. _He felt like a widow, a lover standing alone in the house where two people used to live. _I can't feel it. I can't feel anything_.

"How are you feeling?" came Mr. Bennet's voice from behind him, eerily echoing his thoughts.

He twisted around to try to get a look at Bennet, but the restraints wouldn't let him get a look at his captor, not positioned as he was, directly behind the bed. "Freaking fantastic," he spat. "What did you _do_ to me?"

"I made you safe," Mr. Bennet said. "I made you normal. You should be thanking me."

"_Thanking you?_ You son of a bitch, I'm going to _kill_ you!" Peter said, pulling involuntarily against his restraints, body straining to get at Bennet.

"Don't tell me you've never wished it," Mr. Bennet's voice came calm and measured to his ears like a conscience, a catalogue of his worst thoughts. "Don't tell me you've never wanted to be normal."

"I got over that a long time ago," Peter snapped.

Mr. Bennet finally walked around the front of the bed, but as soon as Peter could see him he realized he didn't want to—didn't want to look him in the face, didn't want to see him so calm after everything he'd done in his life, blank smooth surface holding his caustic, radioactive insides in. He turned his face away and stared fixedly at the ceiling, which was just as cold without the excuse of being human.

"So you're an empath," Bennet said, then paused. "Or at least, you were. A copycat. A sponge."

Peter didn't answer; it was really starting to hit him now—it was all gone. Everything that had ever made him anything was just _gone_, sucking his self-purpose down with them. These abilities had been his whole identity, and he didn't know who he was without them. Some lost kid in the back of a taxi—_do you ever the feeling that you're…_meant_ for something more?_—a second-tier undefined younger brother—_you're__not a fighter, Peter, but that's okay, the world needs nurses too_—a fixer who could never quite fix things good enough—_here lies Peter Petrelli, he's_ tryingA million threads that added up to nobody.

Mr. Bennet was still talking, but he wasn't listening. All he could think was, _Why__ is it always my job to save the world when I'm so clearly terrible at it? Why is it always me? Why can't I just have somebody save _me_ for once, God knows I need saving. Why is it always my job to fix everything—and how the hell am I going to fix it now? _He'd never missed Nathan more in his life.

"…Well?" Peter heard Bennet say as he focused his mind back in, trying to cut off the self-pity before it shut him down. "What do you think, Mr. Petrelli?"

"You don't know what you've done."

"Sorry?" Bennet said, raising his eyebrows.

"You don't know what you've done," Peter repeated flatly, still looking at the ceiling. "I wasn't just trying to save my own world, you moron, I was trying to save everybody. I was trying to save us all and you've just screwed me over. You might as well just shoot yourself in the foot, while you're at it."

Mr. Bennet rubbed his temple with two fingers, a look on his face that Peter was familiar with—it was the tired-parent look, usually applied to Claire when she'd done something stupid. "Mr. Petrelli, you should know that I'm starting to think you've lost your mind," he said.

"I wish."

"No you don't," Bennet said.

"Yes I do," Peter said, and meant it.

"Well," said Bennet with a sardonic smile. "Maybe we can help you with that."

---

Peter was so drugged, so borderline-depressive drained, that he thought he might never wake up again. He was wrong. His body jerked awake on pure reflex in the middle of the night, so instinctive that it took his a few confused seconds to figure out what was wrong. There was a hand gripping his arm, and another over his mouth, someone leaning over him with their hair brushing his neck. He started struggling, another instinct that did him little good, restraints cutting into his wrists, unsuccessfully trying to get his attacker off.

"_Stop_ that," a woman's voice snapped close to his ear. "I'm trying to help you, damn it! Stay still, I'm going to get you out of here."

He froze instantly, more out of shock than trust, but her hands were at his wrist, pulling the restraint open, moving to the other arm, and he wasn't sure he believed she was here to help but at least he was getting free, and that was a start. _This is fine, this is good, I'll just get the IV out of my arm and wait for the drugs to drain out, then I can teleport—oh wait, no. Son of a bitch! _He could barely keep himself still as she undid the rest of the restraints, muscle-memory telling him to escape, to turn invisible, to set things on fire, to do all the things that he couldn't do anymore and didn't know how to survive without.

She pulled the last restraint away and he jumped out of the bed—too quickly, the tranquilizers making him stumble, knees buckling. She caught his arm as he fell, and he turned to look at her—it was Niki, blond hair blue eyes Niki, he'd thought he recognized that voice. "Why are you doing this?" he asked, fully aware of how inappropriate the question was in the middle of an escape attempt but unable to help it.

She shot him a look that he could tell was annoyance even in the semi-dark, pulling him up. "Look, Peter, I understand where you're coming from, but can we _not_? I'm trying to spring you from a high-security cell, and you're too drugged up to access any abilities, so _I'm on my own here_."

"Sorry to disappoint," he told her as she led him through the cell door, "but I'm the guy next door now—I've got nothing. Bennet gave me that cure thing, remember?"

She let out a short burst of laughter that made him flinch and check the hallway for guards. "This is probably not the best way for you to hear this," she said, "but you got conned. How are they supposed to study your abilities if you don't have them? Believe me, sugar, you're the most interesting thing to come across our tables in a _long_ time, they're not about to just erase that and lose it forever."

He stopped dead in his tracks, but she pulled him on again the next instant, strong enough to drag him through his astonishment. "What—?" he spluttered. "But the needle—I _saw_ him." She didn't respond except to shake her head, and a small fireworks-burst of hope lit up behind his eyes. She pushed him into the next room and he stopped beyond the doorway, focusing for a moment on his hand, willing it to burst out into flame like a gas stove lighting, to do the impossible that he'd thought was gone. Nothing. She saw him standing there, staring fixedly at his hand, and made a noise of exasperation, grabbing his arm to pull him forward. He swatted her hand away, swinging around to face her full-on. "You _lied_," he accused. "It's not working, none of it's working!"

"You want to keep it down?" she snapped. "Of course it's not working, you've got God knows how much drugs pumped into you! What, you thought they were just going to tell you that you were helpless and expect you not to try something? Your abilities will come back in ten minutes or so, as soon as it all starts working out of your system."

She grabbed him again, and this time he didn't protest, let her drag him toward another hall. He wasn't sure if she was telling the truth, but there wasn't a whole lot he could do either way. It was one of those rock-and-a-hard-place situations, and since he couldn't think of a good reason for her to lie, he was going to have to go with his churning, drugged-up gut. "Okay, fine," he said guardedly, "but I still don't trust you. Tell me why you're doing this."

She stuck her head around a doorway, checking for security, then turned back to flash him a hard half-second smile. "I couldn't save _him_," she said vaguely, "might as well make myself feel better with you."

He made a face, knowing she probably couldn't see it in the half-darkness. This was what he really hated about these alternate worlds—being out of the loop. Being expected to know what people were talking about when they said things that made no sense. Not _ever_ knowing what the hell was going on. "What are you _talking_ about?"

"Your brother," she said brusquely as they moved down the concrete-industrial back hall. "You know, your brother Nathan? I killed him." He stopped again—he couldn't help it. "Come _on!" _she hissed.

"Oh, I'm so freaking sorry!" he spat back as quietly as he could manage. "If you keep making these statements that blow my _mind_, you're going to have to get used to it! What do you _mean_, you killed him?" _It's not the real Nathan_, he reminded himself furiously, trying to squash the desire to strangle her, _she's not talking about the real Nathan, __she__ didn't kill your brother. _

She kept moving and he had to follow, staying close enough to hear her reply. "I killed him, I got him killed," she repeated. "Look, do you really want to hear this story?" She turned abruptly, nearly colliding with him. "Or do you want to get the hell out of here?" Without breaking eye contact, she reached out to the door on her left, turned the knob, and pushed it open. The halfway-open door gave him a clear view of outside, a triangular slice of the stars and barely-dewing grass.

"Of course I want to hear the story," he said edgily, eyeing the exit."But you're off the hook, because I want _that_ more." He shoved past her and got through the door, running as soon as he hit the grass, his legs already steadier under him. That was a good sign—if she'd been telling the truth, that meant his abilities would be back in under five minutes, and he could finally—_finally__—_get the hell out of this universe. Until then, either way, he was getting as far away from Primatech Paper as possible.

Niki watched his silhouette blur into the shadows of the parking lot, disappearing behind awkward sightlines and then suddenly gone. She felt Jessica resurface slightly, a decidedly un-sweet-Niki smirk coming to her lips. "You're welcome," she said sardonically, and shut the door.


	22. Nu: Trouble Along the Way

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Okay, I've got a lot of business to run through here, so just bear with me…first of all, I'm really sorry this update took so long! I got really sucked into this universe, absolutely _loved_creating it. It was just…really high-concept, so it took awhile to pull together, but I'm pretty happy with the results so far. I might even do a spinoff once this fic is done…

Anyway, back to real business: I was considering doing a fourth (!!!) chapter in this universe, to give Peter a shot at fixing Bitchy Claire, but I thought I'd better get back to the core universe and get the story moving again. Don't worry, though! I swear, all loose ends will be tied up by the end of the fic! Can't tell you anything more specific than that, but…everything will be fixed. Cross my heart.

Also, for whatever reason, a few days ago I was seized by a terrible desire for chapter titles. You may have noticed. This actually turned out to be a good thing, because once I started titling my chapters, I realized that this whole Greek-alphabet organizational system I've been using would have worked great…if I hadn't completely screwed it up. Somehow I ended up calling two different universes the "Alpha" universe, meaning every time I referenced a universe by Greek letter after that, I was actually one off. No big deal—just a lot of tedious editing I had to go back and do. So, to clarify: the central universe is the Alpha universe, and everything else follows after that. The point of all this—and I do have one—is that I'm nearly positive I got all the errors, but not one hundred percent sure. So if you see me use a Greek-letter tag that doesn't match the chapter title, please let me know! Sorry about the wait, the confusion, and the horribly, tediously long AN. Love y'all!

---

"So let me get this straight," Hiro said. "In order for you to actually sleep, you had to pass out, be kidnapped, and drugged for three days."

Peter wasn't looking at him—he was watching his hand as he opened and closed a fist, watching flame burst up like a cheap Zippo lighter and then extinguish, transfixed by his world gone back to normal. "That's right," he confirmed.

"Of course," Hiro said sardonically. "Why didn't _I _think of that?"

"Yeah, yeah," Peter said. "I can see the 'I told you so' waiting to burst out of you—just get it over with."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Hiro lied. He was thrilled to see the light back in his friend's eyes—the anger wasn't gone, but it was under control, collared. The crazy was back behind bars; the fever had broken. "So," he said, raising an eyebrow, "what have we learned from this experience?"

"Sleep is good," Peter replied dutifully. "We like sleep. It's good for us."

"Gold star," Hiro said. "Let's not do this again, huh? I was worried."

"Whoa there," Peter said, pulling away with a grin. "Are we having a moment?"

"Of course not," Hiro replied. "Don't be silly. We're _men._"

---

"Is there a_ problem_?" Peter asked irritably, hands full of strings and paper.

"What?" Hiro responded a bit too quickly.

"Have I caught on fire?" Peter continued. "Have I grown another head?"

"Of course not—"

"Then stop watching me," Peter said, cutting harshly across his reply. "I'm not crazy, and I'm not going to explode. Stop watching me."

"Well, excuse me for being concerned," Hiro said, affronted. "I just—want to know if you're okay."

"Yes!" Peter said with exasperated and building anger, turning on Hiro with timelines swirling around him like suspended thoughts. "Yes, I'm okay! How many times have you asked me already? _I'm okay—_anyone else asks me that and we're going to have a problem."

"All _right_," Hiro said, actually comforted by Peter's outburst—this was the old, moody-jaded Peter, not the desperate, white-knuckled, crazy-eyed one. "All right, whatever," he said, backing off easily. "I'm just glad to have you back, all right?"

"What is it with you and the chick-flick moments today?" Peter grumbled, slightly pacified. "It's kind of weird, man."

"Sorry," Hiro said, amused. "You just finish your timeline there, and I won't make you uncomfortable anymore."

"You'd better not," Peter said lightly. "I'm on the edge."

"Sure, Peter," Hiro said, only able to smile because he knew it wasn't true. "Sure you are."

---

"If he catches you watching him, he's gonna flip," Audrey said, pulling Hiro away from the door.

"I know," Hiro admitted. "I can't help it. You didn't _see_ him the other day, Audrey—he was really kind of scary. I honestly didn't know if he was going to make it back."

"Well, he did," Audrey said sharply. "And before you ask, no, he's not okay. He's not okay and he's never going to be okay. Hell, _you're_ never going to be okay. We're damaged goods, Hiro, all of us are, and there's no use pretending we'll ever be fixed, not ever, not really. We're all just waiting to snap—so don't _push_ him."

"Yeah, you're right," he sighed, walking away from the door.

She watched him pace to the window—stop—rub his temple, walk toward the door again, then stop—take a step, stop—turn around and pace. "Hiro, darling," she said sweetly. "You're twitchy."

"I am not," he said guiltily.

"Yes, you are. You need to get out of here."

"What?" Hiro said incredulously. "You're kicking me out?"

"You know you want to get working," she said practically. "Peter's not going to explode if you don't watch him, and he just might if you do. _Go_."

Hiro didn't have to be told twice—he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her in, kissed her hard and then disappeared mid-kiss, leaving her stumbling with nothing to hold her. He was gone.

---

When he opened his eyes, everything was brown. Faded wooden walls, leather and dirt, sun-browned people with boots and scowls. He was in some kind of building made of wood, with tables scattered randomly and a bar running parallel to the back wall. Perhaps it _was_ a bar—in fact, his immediate thought was "saloon". Something about the place reminded him of old American westerns, Clint Eastwood and John Wayne and shootouts and stickups. It was exactly like any half-dead Wild West storytown—except for the neon lettering on the window. Except for the pinball machine in the corner. Except for the Levis and Wranglers and Nikes. Except for the things that didn't fit. And then there was another thing immediately different in this universe—he was being noticed. The tired-looking patrons of this tired-looking saloon had turned squinted eyes toward him, calmly puzzled at his sudden appearance.

He was busted—reminded again how slapdash-foolish their plan had been all along. He waited for the uproar; he waited to be shown exactly how foolish he really was. But these people simply blinked drowsily and turned back to their liquor, ignoring him. Two men at the pool table turned back to their game, shooting with precision and no attention to him. Another man got up and walked out the swinging double doors, but his pace was leisurely—he wasn't running, and he wasn't startled. Nobody was startled. _Okay, _Hiro thought warily, but he couldn't keep standing there in the center of the room, attracting attention.

As casually as he could, he crossed to the bar and took a seat, making sure he had a good view of the room. "What can I get you?" asked the blond woman behind the bar, sun-bleached and vaguely familiar in a way that he knew he wouldn't be able to place.

_God, what _can_ you get me_? He considered quickly. _How am I supposed to know what's normal here?_ He went with, "Whatever you've got on tap," then turned to size up the people in the saloon, who were in turn quietly sizing him up back.

The first thing he realized was that he stuck out badly. People here were dressed like it was 1910 smashed into 2010, torn jeans and leather, cowboy hats and baseball caps—battered but practical, as tough-lined as the people who wore them. Nothing flashy—nothing more than necessary—the women all wore ponytails and then men had their jeans tucked into their boots. There were hip holsters everywhere and knives strapped to belts, dull-metal guns and unsparking eyes. These people looked like they'd been dragged through Hell and had fought the Devil back up—they looked like they should probably not be messed with. They chewed their tobacco and they knocked back their whisky—and they watched him.

A blond girl walked around behind his stool, sliding his drink down the counter. This one, he recognized instantly—Claire, in a denim miniskirt and a smile with a strange twist, like orange juice in vodka. "Here you go," she said with an unfamiliar Texas twang. "Anything else I can get you?"

"No," he said, not ready to dive into this new world yet.

She smiled that strange smile again and sat down next to him, turning on the stool to face him. "Listen—" she started, but just as she was about to tell him what was twisting her mouth, the saloon doors swung open.

Hiro had to admit that the entrance probably wasn't as dramatic as it looked, three people sweeping into the saloon with the sun cutting them into silhouettes. In his world, these people would have been outrageous, out of the ordinary, attracting stares and snapshots. Here, they fit. Nobody noticed them except for him. They entered with unobtrusive flair, rock stars and sneak thieves, and he turned a hundred and eighty degrees to watch them, couldn't keep his eyes off them. They were wham-bam power with a coating of Texas dust, low-maintenance honest cool.

There were three of them, two men and a woman, two that he recognized. The woman was a little harder to identify—she was the first one through the door, long blond Tomb-Raider ponytail and hard-edged smile, knives strapped at her wrists, holstered gun and a confident prettiness that threw him off more than anything else. It was the cold cop smile that finally tipped it for him—it was Audrey. _Damn_, he thought admiringly, _she looks _goodWhere had she gotten that body? That take-you-out-and-you're-going-to-love-it smile? He was definitely giving his girlfriend some tips when he got home.

The second person he recognized instantly—it was Ando. His heart leapt up and choked him, the breathstopping shock of dead-man-walking. He'd listened to Peter talk about running into Nathan in other worlds—listened to him say how strange it was, how numbly painful, like watching your own ribs get cracked open and your heart torn out in front of you, how he wished it _had_ been torn out so he wouldn't have to feel it inside him like a hurricane barely contained in his body, ripping him up with a thousand emotions trying to go in a thousand different directions at once. Hiro hadn't really believed him then—Peter had a knack for melodrama—but he believed him now. It was all he could do not to leap up and hug his dead friend, so difficult not to remember Ando burning up before his eyes like rice paper, moth-in-flame.

But Ando's face didn't light like it used to at the sight of his friend—barely looked at him—and Hiro knew this was just another nothing. Just another wild alternative that could never touch his own rotting future. Not unless he fixed this. He had work to do.

Once he was finally able to focus on Nu-Ando, he had to be impressed. This variation of Ando looked like everything his friend would have wanted to be—capital-C cool in a cinematic way, cool without even trying, post-punk Western cool in a way that again just seemed to fit here. His hair was a little longer than Hiro was used to, and unintentionally spiked like he'd just been sleeping, like he'd just run a hand through it. His clothes matched his absolute-black color of his hair, punk without the excess, simplicity, not spikes and studs, eyecatching only in their cut and the way that he wore them. Cleanly minimalist—one got the impression that he just didn't care enough to deal with color.

Hiro had to admit he was jealous of the effect. He would have been more jealous if he didn't also _miss_ Ando like stabbing himself with a steak knife, but his old friend looked exactly like what Hiro himself had always wanted to look like, back when he thought about those kinds of things.

There was only one person Hiro didn't recognize, and he was the one who crossed the room first, sitting down next to Hiro at the bar with only one stool between them, giving Hiro only the cursory glance of a confident man with a gun at his hip. His presence was subtly threatening almost at once, lean and tense, with practical muscles visible under his thin cotton shirt. He was wearing a leather jacket that looked like he'd worn it for a thousand years, battered to the point of authenticity. His hair was the same color as his jacket and just as careless, in his face like he hadn't had a haircut in awhile, eyes that caught you and a smile that held you. He was using it now, leaning over the bar with a smile like weaponized charm.

"Hey, Meredith," he said to the bartender as Audrey and Ando sat down on either side of him, Audrey sitting right next to Hiro but still not quite paying attention to him. "You look gorgeous today, have you done something new with your hair?"

"Zach, honey, I haven't done anything new with my hair since the Crash," Meredith said tolerantly. "Double Manhattan?"

"You know me," he said with a grin. "Hey, have you seen Claire around?"

"I think she went down to the cellar to get some more whiskey. Are y'all on a hunt? Because you know she's too chicken to help you."

"No, it's nothing," he said. "Just wanted to say hi."

Audrey shot him a sidelong glance, the first time she'd really looked at him despite his unusual appearance. "Hey there, stranger," she said sardonically. "Are you in from out of town?"

"Um, yeah," Hiro said nervously. He wasn't as good at lying as Peter was, didn't have that silvertongued Petrelli glibness. The problem was, he could never know what story would be appropriate until he actually arrived in the universe—and then, of course, it was too late. "Yeah, just got here." _Which isn't even a lie. _

"Did you really?" she said, sliding around to face him. "Where did you—"

"Hey, Clarkson!" Meredith yelled suddenly, throwing a dishtowel at a guilty-looking man who had just spit tobacco juice on the floor. "Do _not_ spit on my floor! You know that bothers Nathan!" She stabbed an angry finger at a sign on the wall, a simple woodburned "Do Not Spit". "Sorry, Audrey, didn't mean to interrupt. What can I get you, darlin'? Whiskey?"

Audrey scowled prettily, obviously wanting to continue her conversation with Hiro, but he wasn't paying attention anymore. His eyes were riveted on a notice posted next to the sign, a single piece of paper that read BOUNTY HUNTERS TAKE NOTICE across the top. "Anyone wishing to take advantage of the Bounty Act of 2008 may now bring captured Specials to their local legal offices. Payment will be as follows: $400 dead, $500 alive, $1000 top 100 Most Wanted. Notice effective August 17, 2011."

A few words were standing out in his mind as if they'd been bolded, italicized, screamed into his ear with a loudspeaker. _Bounty. Captured Specials. Dead. _Suddenly a few things clicked together like the final twist of a Rubix cube, and he knew he was in very big trouble. Out of his peripheral vision he could see Audrey watching him read the notice, slowly reaching inside her jacket. He moved first, standing abruptly from the stool, knocking it backwards, but she had her gun out faster than Alpha-Audrey ever could have and pointed at his chest, hooking her foot behind him and slamming him back into the bar.

"Don't move, freak," she said coolly. He started to struggle, and she pressed the gun straight to his forehead, cold circle of metal giving him an instant headache of about-to-die. "If I have to kill you I'm going to lose a hundred dollars, so I'll tell you again—Don't. Move."


	23. Nu: Every Which Way But Loose

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hey guys. I have some bad news. Well, good news for me, bad for you. I bet a lot of you have heard of NaNoWriMo, but for those of you who haven't, here's the Reader's Digest version: November is National Novel Writing Month, and there's an organization ( that challenges writers to complete a 175-page novel by the end of the month. No editing allowed, no thinking, just a crazy headlong write-off to the end.

Anyone know what I'm thinking? Yeah, you guessed it. I'm doing NaNoWriMo—I'm writing a novel. And, as much as it sucks…I can only write one at a time. Before you panic—no, I'm not abandoning this fic. I'm just taking a short hiatus for the month of November, in order to rise to this challenge. I swear—cross my heart and hope to die—I will be back on December 1, bringing you a new chapter, and I swear I'm still going to follow this through to the end. I have a lot of time and energy invested in this fic, I'm not about to abandon it.

So—I'm asking you for your patience. Just wait one month. I swear I'll be back, I absolutely swear it. I love you all so much! Thanks for understanding!

---

Hiro's only awareness was of the gun pressed to his head—calculating the speed of his teleportation, whether he was literally faster than a speeding bullet, whether he wanted to risk it. He never had a chance to make the decision; several things happened in the same instant, colliding into an loud, confused diaster. Someone started screaming, and for a disorienting moment he though it was him, but then he could see out of the corner of his eye that the stove behind Meredith had somehow caught fire, and she was the one screaming, trying to beat it out with a dishtowel. Then, he heard a _clang_ and a fall and a splash of something wet, a hand wrapping around his wrist, and Audrey jumping as liquid fell onto them, her twitchy trigger finger doing the only thing her instincts were telling her—she fired the gun.

Hiro's instincts reacted immediately as well, and for once, in smart self-preservation. His eyes squeezed shut for a moment, half in fear and half in a last-ditch attempt to use his powers to stop a bullet punching a hole in his head.

It worked.

He opened his eyes to the sight of a hovering bullet a half-inch away from his forehead, menacing him from its helpless position midair. The first thing he noticed, of course, was that he wasn't dead. The second thing, though, was that he wasn't the only one moving.

This was instantly disconcerting to him, making him flinch away from the person who had a hold on his wrist. He had only ever brought someone else into a time-stop with him a few times before—usually with Peter, occasionally on accident—and he certainly hadn't meant to pull another person into the pocket with him _this _time. "Claire!" he said, relieved that it was her and not Audrey or Ando or Zach, all of whom appeared to be a strange sort of head

hunter in this vastly unfriendly world. "What are you doing? I thought you were downstairs!"

She let go of his wrist and backed away, pulling a six-inch knife from the back of her belt. "Hey, buddy, I don't know you," she said warily, staring in shock at the frozen room around her. "What the hell did you _do?_"

"My name is Hiro Nakamura," he said, holding his hands palms-up in the universal sign for 'I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not dangerous. Trust me.' "I can stop time and I can teleport. I teleported here from a different universe." He didn't even worry about padding the explanation this time; this universe seemed fully aware of extraordinary abilities. They didn't seem to like them much, but at least he didn't have to pretend.

"You stop time?" she said, glancing around again. "If you stopped this, then why am I not stopped?"

"I don't know," he said honestly. "It was probably because you were holding onto me when I did it. Come to think of it—what were you _doing_?"

Claire ran a finger along a glass mug that was frozen mid-spill, pouring its contents onto Audrey. "I was trying to save you, of course. I was trying to distract them, and it looks like my Mom was, too." She nodded toward the stove, where Meredith had been stopped in the middle of her fight with the stovetop blaze. "She can control fire," Claire explained matter-of-factly.

"Well, it's not like I'm not grateful," Hiro said. "But why?"

"You're a Special," she said. "That's what we do. Me and my Mom and my Dad, we try to get to you before the hunters do—we try to get you out to Canada or the UK something. They're not bad people," she said, watching him glare at the Audrey as he plucked her bullet out of the air. "They're just trying to get by like the rest of us. Since the Crash, everybody just does what they have to, and nobody blames anybody anymore."

"The Crash," he repeated, an implied question. He'd heard the term several times since he'd been in this universe—he assumed it had something to do with why everything looked like a John Wayne film, scowls all around and a light covering of dust.

"Come on," she said, grabbing his wrist again and dragging him toward the stairs. "My dad will explain everything. I don't know how long you can hold this time-freeze thing, but it's really freaking me out."

Hiro shot one last look at the half-developed scene behind him, the harsh cut-lined determination on the faces of the three hunters, and followed her downstairs. Whoever these people were, however they had come about, he wasn't sure he wanted to tangle with them. They had a carelessness and a cornered quality that made them dangerous even to somebody who could bend time in half.

He hadn't bothered to think her casual statement about "my Dad" through, so when she led him into a downstairs study, he was surprised to see Nathan Petrelli frozen behind the desk, not Noah Bennet. "Oh!" he said in surprise. "Nathan!"

She turned and looked at him curiously. "Were you expecting someone else?"

"No," he explained awkwardly. "Not…really. You just—have a different father in my universe, I guess."

"Really?" she said interestedly, giving Nathan a closer look. "Who is it?"

"I don't think I can tell you that," he prevaricated. "I'm pretty sure that falls into the category of rifts in the space-time continuum."

"Whatever," she said, rolling his eyes in the teenage way he knew from Alpha-Claire—it was good to know that some things never changed. "Well, I have to get back upstairs. Give me thirty seconds?"

"You've got it," he promised. "Nice to meet you, Claire."

"Yeah, you too," she said, not looking back as she headed up the wooden stairs. "Don't get killed!"

He saw her feet finally disappear up the staircase and heard the door slam. He started counting silently in his head, moving around the strange half-study that Nathan was frozen into, bent over a stack of papers on his desktop. Moving around to Nathan's side of the desk, he read "MEMO: Mayor's signature needed" written across a few of the papers and took another look at Nathan. He didn't look like Hiro's perception of a mayor—he didn't even look like Nathan, jeans and boots—but that shouldn't have been surprising, nothing in this universe was familiar to him. He could certainly see Nathan as a mayor, just not a gunslinging hands-on type—his only perception of Nathan Petrelli before he had died was the buttoned-up Brooks-Brothers-suit type. These alternate realities were so interesting to him, like looking at his own world through a kaleidoscope. Possibilities he would never have considered.

_Twenty-nine__ one thousand_, he thought, walking back around the front of the desk. _And…thirty__ one thousand._ He closed his eyes and started time again.

Nathan's first movement was a violent double-take—he looked up, saw Hiro, and freaked, jumping off his chair with his gun out of its holster faster than Hiro's explanation. "It's okay!" he said hurriedly, backing away from Nathan. "It's okay, calm down! Claire brought me down here, I'm a Special! I can teleport."

Nathan eyed him suspiciously for another few moments, then let his gun drop. "What's going on up there?" he asked, jerking his head up at the sudden explosion that seemed to have broken out over their heads, shouting and stomping echoing through the floorboards.

"That would be my fault," Hiro admitted. "I almost got myself caught by a couple of hunters. Claire basically pulled me out of it, then she told me to come see you. She said you would explain."

"Right," Nathan said, suddenly businesslike, walking over to a set of drawers and pulling things out of them with a quick, professional air. "I can get you a visa to Canada, and if you can teleport, transportation shouldn't be a problem, so—"

"Wait, you don't understand," Hiro said, impressed with the Petrellis' organization but unfortunately not needing it. "I can teleport through space, time, anything, and—I don't exactly live in this universe."

Nathan stopped shuffling papers and turned to stare at him. "Wait—what?"

"I'm from another universe," Hiro explained patiently. "I don't even live here, I just needed some information. My universe kind of sucks, and we're trying to figure out the focal points and events of all the dimensions so that we can fix ours."

Nathan sat down on the corner of his desk, digesting this. But Nathan Petrelli had always been one of the sharpest people Hiro had ever met, and it didn't take him long to process. "If you fix your universe, will mine be fixed, too?" he asked.

It was a good question. _Trust Nathan Petrelli to ask what I've never even thought about before. _"I don't know," he said honestly. "I hope so. I think that's how it works. It's kind of an all-hang-together deal, is my impression."

"God knows my world could use some fixing," Nathan said frankly. "What do you need to know?"

"I just want to know what happened to you people," Hiro asked. "What is this…_Crash_ I keep hearing about?"

"The Crash refers to the day our economy did a nosedive," Nathan told him, quick and confident, like teaching a history lesson. "There were a bunch of fires in the Midwest, freak storms in New England, a lot of stuff going down—and then California fell off the coast."

Hiro blinked, not sure he'd heard right. "_Fell off_?"

"Fell off," Nathan repeated firmly. "There was a huge earthquake along the San Andreas fault, we lost everything west of it straight into the ocean. You see what I mean about needing fixing."

"I definitely do. So—that was why the economy crashed?"

"California was the last straw," Nathan confirmed. "Anyway, all these things were so freak, so unexplained, that people started thinking it couldn't be natural. They started looking for someone to blame. Apparently the government had been sitting on the existence of us Specials for awhile, and they decided, like everyone else, that it was our fault. Who knows, maybe it even was—some of that stuff was pretty weird.

I guess it doesn't matter. Either way, we took the blame for it, and got an instant sort of terrorist status. Congress churned out this bill within days, saying that Specials were to be exterminated and issuing rewards for bodies. After the bill came out, hunters started popping up everywhere—practically half the country lost their jobs in the Crash, everyone was looking for money—and it's just…been like this ever since. Well—less hunters now. It's become more of a casual thing, less hate and more coexistence, and the only ones left are the ones who were actually good at it. Your friends Audrey, Ando, and Zach up there are some of the best. We've always had a hard time keeping them off our scent."

There was a loud crash upstairs, and a yell that sounded closer, coming in just under the doorjamb. "Well, where _is_ he, then?" Ando was saying loudly. "I _saw_ him, he was _here, _it was Hiro Nakamura!"

"You're Hiro Nakamura?" Nathan said, mildly surprised. "No wonder he's pissed. He turned you for five thousand dollars back in '06."

"He did _what?_"

"Everyone knows about it, it's a pretty big deal," Nathan told him. "If I were you, I'd get out of here before he decides to run a full search on the saloon."

Hiro didn't need to be told twice—the fact of Ando's betrayal was just another reason to dislike this universe that was giving him goosebumps already. It was definitely time to go. "Thanks," he said to Nathan, taking a mental picture of him sprawled like Clint Eastwood on the desk, gun still in hand. Maybe he would tell Peter, depending on how moody his friend was when he got back.

"No problem," Nathan said easily.

Hiro closed his eyes and disappeared.


	24. Xi

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Surprise! It's SkyRogue's birthday today, so this is a birthday chapter for her! Also, I wanted to let you guys know I haven't forgotten you—wanted to give you a little something halfway through the month to let you know that even though I'm doing NaNo, I'm still thinking about y'all. Halfway through my novel, now, and it's going really well! Thanks for sticking with me—I'll see you on December 1st!

---

Peter knew the instant he reached the new universe—it was like coming out of a long tunnel that was just slightly too small, decompression and the ability to breathe again. He drew in his first breath of Xi-universe air and opened his eyes with the slightest bit of trepadation to see where he'd ended up this time. When his eyes came open, he immediately had another one of those insane moments where his brain twisted like a Rubix cube, presented with the sight of his own self, his double right in front of his face. Xi-Peter seemed to have the same reaction, leaping back from him and yelling like he'd seen a ghost, which was close except that Peter wasn't dead yet.

He took quick stock of his new surroundings—he was in a boxy concrete room that was obviously Company, and as Xi-Peter continued to yell his alarm, he heard footsteps past the glass pane on the far wall. _Damn_he thought, panicking slightly. The cell was as staringly blank as any he'd been in, and there was very obviously nowhere to hide.

"Peter?" The voice seemed to come from nowhere, a clipped British accent and a tone of worried surprise. "Peter, what's going on?"

Fortunately, Peter had been in far worse situations, and he knew exactly what to do when things like this happened—just as the cell door began to open, he concentrated quickly on himself, corporeal to incorporeal, and he willed himself out of being, making his body go clear. He was invisible by the time she got in the door, and he was glad, because it meant he could stare at the person who walked in unabashedly, surprised and admiring. She certainly didn't _look_ like a Company agent. No harmless middle-management paper salesman, this—she was a long-legged blonde with three inch-heels and a smile like she wouldn't mind eating Xi-Peter for lunch. She looked like a sorority girl and walked like a runway model, batted her lashes like she was flirting, but Xi-Peter pulled away from her the instant she came in. He was a little bit afraid of this girl—Peter could see it in his body language, the slight curl into himself.

She flicked her eyes at invisible Peter in the corner, as if she'd caught some small glimpse of his presence. Her gaze quickly moved on, though, to Xi-Peter, who was now very quiet, panic silenced the moment she'd come through the door. "Peter," she purred, sounding perfectly delighted to see him. "You know, if you're lonely, you just have to ask."

Xi-Peter didn't bite. "There's someone in here," he told her tersely. "He's over there, he went invisible but he's right over there, I _saw_ him!"

Peter instantly began to slide out of the corner Xi-Peter was indicating, barely missing the girl as she brushed her hands along the wall, checking for invisible intruders. "Nope," she said helpfully. "Nobody here. Maybe we need to up your meds or something."

"There is someone _here_," Xi-Peter said vehemently. "I _saw_ him, okay? It was _me_."

"You?" she laughed as she sidled up to him. "You're spending too much time alone in this room, Peter. Are you sure this isn't just a ploy to get me into your cell?" She wrapped her arms around his waist, staring up at him.

He pulled away halfheartedly, unhooking her hands from behind him. "Yeah, Elle, I'm really sure."

"Come on," she said, following Xi-Peter as he walked across the room, eyes sweeping back and forth across the room as if he thought he could find Peter if he looked hard enough. It occurred suddenly to Peter that he actually _could_ potentially see him in the way that he had once been able to see Claude. But his eyes were running straight over Peter, and Elle had been talking about medication—the Company had always had ways of keeping their abilities down. He started to breathe again—but of course, not loudly enough that they could hear him. "Come on," Elle said, running her hand down his arm, and suddenly blue sparks leapt from her fingers into his skin, making him twitch away. "You missed me. You wanted to see me."

"I didn't want to see you, Elle," he snapped, rubbing his arm where she'd shocked him.

Her face fell a little at his sharp tone, and then came a barely-concealed pout. "Fine," she said, hurt, spinning on her spike heel to go. "Call me if there's a _real_ problem."

Xi-Peter watched her walk out, waited until she shut the door, and then turned on the apparently empty room. "I know you're here!" he said loudly. "Show yourself right now, I _know_ you're here!"

"Peter?" the disembodied British voice came again. "Peter, tell me what's going on."

"Ever run into an invisible man, Adam?" Peter called back tautly. "I've got one in my cell, and he won't show himself."

Peter sighed heavily—he wished Xi-Peter hadn't been so hostile about it, but obviously there was only one thing to do. "Okay," he said calmly. "I'm coming out." He dropped the invisibility as slowly as he could, trying not to alarm Xi-Peter, who started again at the strange feeling of staring into his own face.

"God, that's unnerving," he said. "You want to explain why you look like me? And what you're doing in my cell?"

"So you've found your invisible man," Adam's voice said—Peter was beginning to realize it was traveling through the vent in the wall. Probably a prisoner in another cell, but Peter didn't recognize the name—he would have thought that he knew everyone in the 26 universes by now, but apparently not.

"Yeah, he's right here," Xi-Peter told him, not taking his eyes off Peter, "and he looks like me."

"I _am_ you," Peter explained. "I've teleported here from an alternate universe. Does that make sense to you? Have you ever met a man named Hiro Nakamura?"

"Yes, I've met Hiro, but I still don't understand—" Peter started.

"No, that actually does make sense," Adam interrupted. "I've seen things like this before, Peter."

"Okay," Peter said, accepting Adam's opinion easily. "So you're from a parallel universe. I can't believe I just said that sentence, but we're going to go with it so that I can ask you what the hell you're doing here."

Peter realized suddenly that he was very sick of explaining this to people. _Maybe I'll make a t-shirt, _he thought abstractly to himself,_ that says Hi, I'm from an alternate universe! See details on back!_ _Or m__aybe I'll write it all down on note cards with helpful visual aids that I could just hand over and say "read this". _Something would have to be done, he decided as he prepared to explain himself for the thousandth time. "I'm trying to fix my universe," he said as concisely as he could mange, "and I need to know about your universe because apparently they're intertwined."

"About our universe?" Xi-Peter said dubiously. "What do you mean, just a general timeline?"

"Yeah, that kind of thing," Peter said, relieved that Xi-Peter was beginning to calm down.

"Well, Adam would probably be better for that kind of thing," Xi-Peter told him, nodding to the vent. "He's been alive for more than 400 years, you know."

"I don't know," Peter said pensively, walking toward it. "He's not around in my world, or at least I've never met him. Hi, Adam," he said, bending down to speak into the vent. "I'm Peter—not the Peter you know, but probably a very similar one. Can you tell me about all the really important events in this universe?"

"Now there's a request," Adam replied, quiet humor hiding behind his accent. "All right, stop me if you've heard these ones—Black Plague epidemic, the discovery of America, World War I, World War II—"

"Those all happened in my universe, too," Peter confirmed. "So the timelines should be the same during that stuff—how about more recently? Was there an explosion in New York City?"

"You mean like a bomb?" Xi-Peter said, suddenly interested in the conversation. "Yeah, there was—does that mean you know all about me—us—going nuclear?"

"Exactly," Peter said, even though he didn't like talking about those events out loud, didn't like to remember them—but if he couldn't talk to himself, he couldn't talk to anyone. "I assume it went off?"

"No, it didn't," Xi-Peter said, slightly puzzled. "Nathan grabbed me and flew me over the Hudson, and I exploded in midair—did that not…happen…in your universe?"

"Not really," Peter said shortly. "Pretty good idea, though. How'd you get caught by the Company, if you didn't blow up New York?"

"Caught? What do you mean caught, like kidnapped? No, I came in myself. They're helping me control my powers."

Peter was speechless for a moment at the idea of a version of himself who had been hoodwinked—who actually still believed that the Company was good. "What? No!" he said once he could get his thoughts together again. "No, no, they're not helping you! They don't help people like us, they lock us up, they study us, the do tests on us—they don't help us."

"That's what I've been trying to tell him," Adam said wryly from the other room.

"You don't know what you're talking about, either of you," Xi-Peter told them. "I'm dangerous. I need to be in here, they're _helping_ me."

"You're less dangerous than you think," Peter argued. "I've been living outside for years past the point your universe is at, and all I've done is help people. They need us out there, they need what we can do. We're here for a reason." _Not quite true_, he apologized to himself, _but I know this part of myself. This is what he needs to hear. Space-time continuum be damned, I can't leave him with the Company. There's no way that's good for _any_ of the dimensions. _

"They just want to keep you locked up forever," Adam chimed in. "You know how long I've been in here, Peter, they'll keep you here until you die."

"No," Xi-Peter said, fully in denial. "No, I came to _them_. They said they'd help me. They're not bad people!"

"Oh yes they are," Peter pressed, calling up arguments from the congruent part of their universes. "Do you know how many people they've abducted from your world? Remember Matt Parkman, the cop? Remember Ted Sprague? They tried to abduct your brother, too, remember when Nathan told you someone had tried to kidnap him?"

"Yeah," Xi-Peter said slowly, "but they must have a reason…"

"Sure they have a reason," Adam told him. "They want to keep us out of the world forever—keep us from doing the things we need to be doing. They want us here like lab rats, their own little human experiments. They're sick, Peter."

"So you're saying I need to get out of here?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying." Peter saw the look on Xi-Peter's face and recognized the thoughts running through his head, realizing that he still wasn't convinced, still didn't want to move out of his new cocoon back into savior mode. Xi-Peter was a little tired of saving people at the moment. "Think about Nathan," he said, knowing exactly what would kick his alternate self into motion, whether it was true or not. "You know they tried to abduct him before, and when you put him in the hospital you practically painted a target sign on him."

"You think they're going to go after Nathan?" There it was, the initiative—the light-up of Xi-Peter's will to escape.

"I know they're going to go after Nathan. And you won't be there to stop them."

"Hell I won't," Xi-Peter said, suddenly furious. "I'm getting out of here, now!"

Suddenly, a voice echoed through the outside hall, a chirpy soprano with a purpose. "He said he saw an invisible man," Elle was saying to someone. "I think he's pretty much just crazy, but there _are_ invisible men, so I thought we should probably check, right?"

"Damn it!" Peter swore. "I have to get out of here."

"Wait!" Xi-Peter grabbed his sleeve as he turned. "I can't get out of here by myself, they give me these pills—I can't use any of my abilities, you have to help me!"

Peter made a split-second decision: he was the one who had pushed Xi-Peter to pull a prison break in the first place, so he figured it was probably his responsibility to get him out. "All right," he said quickly, gripping Xi-Peter's arm. "Hang on, we're going to teleport out of here."

"Peter," Adam said, rising panic. "Peter—!"

But it was too late for a conversation, the door was swinging open and Peter closed his eyes, tightening his grip on Xi-Peter and aiming for the first thing he could remember from this far back. There was an abrupt compression and a _pop_, and then they were standing on the Brooklyn Bridge, cars shooting by them and the river below.

"Adam!" Xi-Peter said as soon as he got his breath back. "We just _left_ him there, you have to go back, they'll know he was part of it—"

"Okay, fine!" Peter snapped, pushing Xi-Peter away from him. "Stay here!"

He closed his eyes again and rematerialized in the Company facility, this time aiming for the cell beside Xi-Peters and barely making it, centimeters away from the wall. Unfortunately, when he opened his eyes, he saw Company agents already pouring into the room, catching sight of him instantly and coming for him, shouting to the people outside the cell.

There was a blond man within arm's reach of him that he could only assume was Adam, turning toward him as he appeared. Peter wasted no time, grabbing Adam by his collar and dragging him toward him, wrapping an arm around the man and yelling, "Hang on!" into his ear.

He closed his eyes and threw himself outward just as the Company men were reaching out for him, teleporting a little roughly this time, a little breathless when his feet finally found a floor again. He opened his eyes and let go of Adam, looking for Xi-Peter—but he wasn't there. They were not on the Brooklyn Bridge. They were in a small, square apartment with stairs up one side and a crisscross tangle of strings in the middle. It was the Loft; they were back in his own universe.

Adam stared openmouthed at his surroundings, disoriented by the jump and confused at their new location. Peter smiled apologetically at him.

"Oops."


	25. Alpha: Falling For It

AUTHOR'S NOTE: What can I say, guys? I just can't stay away. So here's another chapter for you—it's like I was never gone : ). Anyway, hang in there, thanks again for your patience, and…I'll see you on Saturday.

If you're _really_ getting desperate for updates, feel free to check out my other long Heroes fic, "Magnolia". I actually almost like that one better : ) : )

---

"Oops," Peter said apologetically. "Sorry. This is definitely not where I meant to take you."

Adam looked stunned, spun, fish-out-of-water, staring at his surroundings like he thought they might snap back to normal any minute, smile at him and tell him they'd only been kidding. Peter watched him for signs of shock or panic, and saw a stark white fear in his eyes but also a kind of familiarity. If he had had to guess, he would have thought that Adam had done this before—not with this world, and not with such whiplash-inducing suddenness, but some kind of matter-shifting or teleportation. Then again, he had been a Company captive—chances were, this man was anything but normal.

"Where am I?" he demanded, shoving Peter away, glaring as if he suspected this was an ambush, a deliberate snatch by an unknown enemy. "What is this place?"

"You're not in any danger," Peter said soothingly, holding his hands up to show Adam there was no hidden weapon waiting to stab him. "I just messed up a little. Let me explain."

"I would appreciate it," Adam said tautly, cornflower-blue eyes still scanning the room for threats.

"Peter asked me to go back for you," he said, his own name sounding strange in his mouth. "I pulled him out of the cell and he wouldn't leave you, he was demanding that I go back and get you out, so I did. I teleported into your cell, and I grabbed you—you remember this part—but there was a lot of stress and danger and stuff, what with the guards trying to kill us, so I guess I kind of panicked. I was supposed to take you to the Brooklyn Bridge, where Peter is waiting for you, but somehow my mind latched onto my home universe instead, and—we ended up here."

"This is another universe, then?" Adam asked, eyebrows raised. Peter couldn't help but feel sorry for the guy—he knew how strange it felt to be in another dimension, so similar but so hair-raisingly wrong. "There really are ways to get to other worlds?" And now there was a spark in Adam's eyes that Peter couldn't quite recognize, a well-covered sort of avarice that made him suspect things that hadn't occurred to him before.

"Well, not for just anyone," he said lightly, "and it's definitely not worth the trouble, believe me. You just get people trying to kill you all the time."

"You say this isn't a trap," Adam said warily, still looking the room over as if he were casing it for a job, "and yet you haven't taken me home yet. Do you plan to keep me here forever?"

"God, no, that would screw all the other dimension to hell," Peter said immediately, thinking of Hiro's descriptions of Delta universe, with its two Hiros and it's irritating Hiro-sucking properties. "The only thing is—I'm not quite sure why I ended up here and not in your world. I assume it's just because I got spooked and I hooked onto the first thought that seemed safe, but I don't know. I don't really know what will happen if I try to take you back."

There was a sudden _pop_ sound and then there was another silhouette on the bottom level of the Loft, moving between strings. "Hiro!" Peter called. "Good timing, man! I've got a delivery for you to make."

"What? What do you mean?" Hiro said, emerging from their growing chart of crisscrossed realities until he had a clear view of Adam, stark and blond and obviously out of place. "Oh."

Adam, on the other hand, had frozen the instant he'd heard Hiro's name, watching Hiro come forward with an even stranger expression, some kind of violence under restraint. Peter watched him for a second, trying to puzzle him out, and then gave him up as a very temporary problem. "I accidentally pulled him with me from Xi universe, and since I'm not really sure how it happened, I'm not feeling all that great about bringing him back. I don't know where we might end up this time."

"Okay, cool," Hiro said. "I guess just—put the location into my head, and I'll take him back? Hi, I'm Hiro, by the way," he said, holding out his hand to Adam.

Adam smiled like a normal person and took his hand, and for a moment Peter thought he had been mistaken about the eye-glints and the strange, predatory looks. Then, Adam's hand tightened over Hiro's and he pulled him forward, grabbing the hilt of the sword slung over Hiro's back and pulling it from it's sheath, dragging Hiro around to plunge the sword into him.

But this was not Hiro's first ambush. The surprise cost him a couple seconds, allowed Adam to get the weapon and the upper hand, but as Adam spun him back to stab him he brought his arms up and out, breaking Adam's grip and getting one of his own hand on the sword hilt. "Did I do something _wrong?_" he demanded of this confusingly violent stranger as they wrestled for the sword. "Hey Peter, a little help here?"

"I'm on it!" Peter said, and swung a chair at Adam's head, slamming him on the back of the skull so that he dropped instantly, bleeding onto their hardwood floors. "Damn. Suppose that'll come out with bleach?"

"It may not have to," Hiro said, frowning at his attacker as he sheathed his sword. He went to his knees beside the unconscious man, tipping his head to the side to confirm what he'd thought he'd seen—the wound was healing, knitting itself together quicker than he'd seen before. "Looks like we've got a Claire on our hands."

"Well, that rules out just killing him, then," Peter said pragmatically. "I don't suppose you can shed any light on the random homicidal attack?"

"Never seen the guy in my life," Hiro said, mystified. "What do you think we should do with him? He's obviously pretty dangerous, what with the murderous rage and the invincibility. Not my favorite combination ever."

"We're not going to do anything with him," Peter said suddenly. "He doesn't even belong here—I sort of forgot for a minute, but he's not from our universe. We just need to drop him right back where he was and let them deal with it."

"Oh yeah?" Hiro said, not thrilled with this new idea. "What if he kills you in that world? What if he kills _me?_"

"Then he kills you," Peter said firmly, arms crossed. "Remember Delta? I'm just trying not to break the universe, here."

"All right," Hiro grumbled. "Think those coordinates over to me, I'll get him back so he can potentially destroy the world."

"That's what I want to hear," Peter said, then frowned. "Sort of."

---

When Hiro got back from his "delivery", he found Peter rummaging through his desk drawers in a way that made him instantly angry. "Peter!" he said, watching his friend stack paper in no particular order all over the floor, not seeming to care if it slid into other piles or tore as he stepped on it. "What are you doing?"

"Have you seen my watch?" Peter wanted to know, not looking up to catch Hiro's extremely annoyed expression.

"Your watch?" Hiro asked, dumbfounded. "Why the hell would your watch be in my desk?"

"I don't know," Peter said, infuriatingly calm. "I've looked everywhere else—these things are always in the place you least expect them to be."

"Well, then, maybe you should check Australia!" Hiro said wildly, plucking his papers from the ground and trying to organize them. "Because it's more likely to be there than in my _desk!" _

"Oh," Peter said, looking around as if noticing the mess for the first time. "Sorry, man."

"Look, Peter," Hiro said, slightly mollified, "it's no big deal. I'll help you look later. It's just a watch—"

"It is _not_ just a watch," Peter snapped, as suddenly angry as if someone had flipped a switch in his head.

"—that your brother gave you," Hiro remembered belatedly, wincing. "Yeah. Sorry. I forgot."

"You don't have to be sorry," Peter said with a terse smile. "I just want to find it, okay?"

"Hey Peter," Audrey said, sticking her head in the door. "Someone's on the phone for you."

"What?" Peter said, raising an eyebrow at her retreating back. "We have a phone?"

"Apparently we do," Hiro said, "and there's someone on it who wants to talk to you. Hop to it, emo boy."

"Who has _phones_ anymore?" Peter muttered as he walked to the kitchen, where Audrey handed him a slim black receiver. "Why didn't they just call my cell?"

"Hello, wanted terrorist," Audrey said dryly as she handed it over. "You're not exactly in the yellow pages."

"Who is this?" Peter said into the phone, ignoring her.

"Hello, is this Peter Petrelli?" said a crisp female alto on the other side.

"Who is this?" he repeated, reminded by Audrey's 'wanted terrorist' comment just how careful he had to be.

"We were given this number by a Claire Bennet? She said we might reach you here," the voice explained. "This is Caffe Bianco, Mr. Petrelli—we just wanted to call to tell you we have a watch here? We thought it might be yours, it has an inscription—"

"Yeah, it's mine!" he said with sudden energy. "I've been looking for it, thank you so much! Where can I pick it up?"

"It will be at the front counter. Sorry about the inconvenience."

"No, no, it's no problem. Thank you so much, I'll be right over to get it."

He tossed the phone to Audrey and she barely caught it, yelling in surprise as it came flying toward her head. "I _found _it, Hiro!" he called back to his friend as he grabbed his coat. "That café place has it, they just called!"

Hiro came out of the back room, brow wrinkled with suspicion. "Well, that's awfully coincidental—" he started to say.

"Yeah, I know, isn't it crazy? I'm just glad they found it," Peter said as he opened the door, flashing them one last, rare smile.

"Peter, wait—!" Hiro yelled as he left the Loft.

But Peter was already gone.

---

"Hi," Peter said, using his best charming smile to win the girl at counter of Caffe Bianco. "My name is Peter Petrelli—you're holding a watch for me?"

"Peter Petrelli?" said the blond girl at the register, checking her notes as Peter scanned the room for possible danger. He _had_, after all, completely trashed this place not more than a few days earlier in a life-or-death struggle with Company thugs. There weren't many people that could have recognized him—only one, really, that pretty Irish waitress, Caitlin. She didn't seem to be anywhere in sight, but he kept an eye out just in case. It was a habit. "Oh yes, Mr. Petrelli. We moved the watch to the back—didn't want it to get stolen, it looks like a really nice watch."

"It is," he assured her.

"Just go through that door there. The girl in the kitchen will give it to you."

"Right," he said, flashing her another smile. "Thanks so much."

But when he went through the indicated door, he found himself in a very empty kitchen—all clean countertops and stainless steel that reflected a room with nobody in it. He was just starting to get a feeling of foreboding when, suddenly, it was justified—he heard the click of a gun loading behind him, and suddenly there was someone in the stainless steel after all.

"Don't move," said Caitlin in her pretty Irish brogue. "I know who you are."


	26. Alpha: Second Date

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Guess what, guys? I wrote a novel! I'm a novelist! One month of frantic writing, and now I have a 177 page novel. It's called "Poison Tree" (from the William Blake poem) and it's going to need a lot of editing, but I'm really happy with how it turned out. Thanks for your patience and understanding, and thank you to everyone who encouraged me. I appreciate your support and tolerance. Anyway! Enough of that silly novel-writing. Back to the fic!

---

"Don't move," Caitlin said, a gun pointed at the back of his neck. "I know who you are."

"I didn't see you," Peter said slowly, trying to figure out how he'd walked into this. "How'd you do that?"

"I said, don't move!" Her voice sounded that much harsher in comparison with its usual calm inflection, and he was completely convinced that she would, actually, shoot him. Not that it would do much good—unless, by some incredibly unlucky coincidence, she managed to put a bullet in that one so-important spot, the one that could stop his brain and kill him.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked, keeping his tone as calm as possible. "Whoever you think I am, Caitlin, I'm not—"

"You're Peter Petrelli," she said.

"…or maybe I am," he finished. "All right, that still doesn't tell me why you want me dead."

"You're a terrorist," she said with enough conviction that he knew how difficult it would be to dissuade her. "You make life _so _hard for the rest of us, Peter—you make them hate us! You put _all _of us in danger!"

"Us?" he said carefully. "Is that it, you're a Special? I would think you'd be grateful for the things I've done."

"Well, I'm not," she said firmly, and he heard the safety release on her gun.

_All right_, he thought to himself. _That's enough of that_. Without any warning whatsoever, he spun around and grabbed her wrist, twisting the gun from her hand. She gave a little cry of surprise and pain, and then suddenly his hand was on fire, bursting up flames that raced along his arm, the smell of burning flesh in the air. He yelled and shoved her away, and as she stumbled into the back wall, the fire was gone just as abruptly, leaving him staring at his untouched arm. "What did you do?" he wanted to know, startled and fascinated.

"I do illusions," she said tersely. "I make things that aren't real—if you'll notice, you're not burned. I don't_ hurt _anyone. Which is more than I can say for you." She circled around him warily, edging toward the gun on the floor.

"I'm _not_ the bad guy here," he snapped, moving quickly between her and the gun. "I help people, okay?"

"Oh, you're not the bad guy?" she said skeptically, watching him warily as if she suspected he was about to charge. "Then how do you explain the people you've killed? The buildings you've burned to the ground? You're just a misunderstood Robin Hood type in need of some love, is that it?"

"Yeah, thanks, Dr. Phil," he said exasperatedly. "Why are you doing this?"

"I think you're dangerous," she said steadily. "I think you need to be put away."

"I'm just trying to save the world," he said half-ironically, watching her eye the gun and thinking too much about the things she'd said.

She gave him a measured, slit-eyed look, and then said. "I've already called the police. They'll be here any minute."

"Why are you telling me this?" he wanted to know. He wasn't terribly afraid of the police—they were only human, after all, but he was afraid of _her_, to some extent, this girl that he'd been attracted to and leaned toward who had pulled a gun on him and told him he didn't deserve to live. He didn't understand her—he understood some of the things she was saying, but he didn't understand _her, _couldn't get his mind around her motivations or her strange, sideways comments.

"I don't know," she said frankly. "I think I hate you. You got my brother arrested."

He raised his eyebrows. "Really."

"Well," she admitted, "indirectly. I am _so _not telling you the story—I'm going to shoot you, remember?"

"Kind of hard without a gun," he remarked helpfully, pushing her gun farther back with his foot.

"Not really," she said, and a new gun materialized in her hand.

"Hmm, yeah—that's not real," he said sardonically. "Also, didn't you do your homework?" He brought his hand up, focused on her and the ability, and thought the gun back out of existence, shredding it with his mind like it was rice paper. "I can do anything you can do. That's not even bragging, I can do _anything."_He couldn't shake the feeling that he was back in high school, showing off in front of a pretty girl—but he also couldn't stop. "And hey, thanks for the new power. I appreciate it."

Suddenly there were sirens outside, the sound of New York traffic sliced through by their two-tone wail. His head snapped around to the noise, and he knew he had to go. There was a good possibility that Homeland Security could have tagged along with the normal, fairly nonthreatening NYPD, and that _was_ something to be scared of. Of course, he wasn't leaving without what he'd come for. "I need my watch," he commanded, taking a few threatening steps toward her.

"What?" she said, confused, then. "Oh, that. Is it really that important?"

"It's really that important," he said emotionlessly, and she looked at him and knew that this was where the danger was—not in insulting him, not in threatening him, but in trying to thwart the things that he found very important.

"It's on the shelf behind you," she said. "Above the knife rack."

He turned, rummaged quickly through the shelf until he found the watch, and then strode past her without a single glance. He didn't stop when he got to the back wall—he slid straight through it, matterless, and was gone.

---

Before Peter even spoke, Hiro knew that things had gone badly at the café. It was a knack he'd picked up after a year or so with his friend—knowing when he'd changed personalities, gone from light to stormcloud. The Peter Petrelli switch. He recognized Unhappy Peter at once from the dark expression, the tension of his muscles and the half-violent way of moving, like it would make him feel better to break a window or smash a chair.

"How'd it go?" he asked anyway, because he knew that Peter would probably want to rant, to take out some of his unhappiness in a potentially less-destructive way.

Peter held up his arm, and Hiro saw Nathan's watch back on his wrist where it belonged. "I got my watch back," he said, and his voice had a quiet seething quality like pre-explosion.

"Uh huh," Hiro said carefully. "And…why aren't we happy about this?"

"Caitlin," Peter said broodingly, crossing the room to the window as if he could look out it and see her, find her miles away in the city. "She set me up."

"That Irish waitress?" Hiro asked, trying to remember what Peter had told him about the first girl he'd flirted with at least six months. "What do you mean, she set you up?"

"She held a gun to my head and then called the police on me," Peter spat. "I sure know how to pick 'em, huh?"

"_Why_, exactly, did she do this?" Hiro said, not from wonder that she would, but just—they had so _many_ enemies, a huge grocery list of dangers. He simply wondered which side this threat had come from.

"Apparently I'm a dangerous terrorist," Peter said, and suddenly Hiro understood his friend's mood.

Personally, Hiro had quickly stopped minding being called 'terrorist' and 'radical' and 'vigilante'—it had never bothered him that sometimes the people they were trying to save were afraid of them, hated them. They still needed to be saved, whether they wanted to be or not. But the deaths had always weighed a little heavier on Peter, stayed with him a longer and sometimes never left. So this girl reminding him of the less admirable parts of his job, the people he'd put in the ground—well, she didn't know what she'd done.

Suddenly, Peter turned and walked back over to Hiro, looking abruptly focused and intent. "You ready?" he said.

"…for what?"

"Same old, same old," Peter said with a strange smile. "People need saving."

"Oh," Hiro said. "Right." He wasn't feeling one hundred percent confident about sending Peter to a new universe in this kind of a mood, but at least Unhappy Peter was better than Dead-Tired Crazy Peter. Jadedness wasn't pleasant, but it wasn't very catching, and besides, Peter was right—people needed saving. Having something to do would probably be good for him. "Yeah, I'm ready," he said.

Peter gave him a smile that made him suddenly regret his decision, angry and bleeding, maladjusted. "Wait a second—" he said compulsively, reaching out a hand to Peter.

But Peter was already gone.


	27. Omicron

The first thing Peter heard was music, slamming a beat into his brain with its insistent rhythm. The first thing he saw were strobe lights, slicing his vision back to white pulses, crashing into him in time with the music. He had two guesses, and when he looked to see, one of them turned out to be right: strip club. He sighed and sat down on the nearest bar stool, panning his vision around to take in the sight of this new and not so different world. _Why do I always get the strip clubs? _he wondered philosophically. _Hiro gets apocalypses and I get strip clubs. I wonder what that says about our personalities. _

It entered his mind for a moment that perhaps he'd landed himself back in Claire-Stripperverse, still one of the most horrifying permutations he'd seen yet. After all, it wasn't like there was any guarantee that they wouldn't go the same place twice—all he had to ensure against repeats was the thought _take me somewhere new_ that he used to guide his dimension-hopping. He was counting down till they could save the world: ten universes left. He certainly wasn't going to waste his time re-mapping an already-visited world.

But this stage was set lower, the lights different shades of garish, and the people didn't look the same here, more ashes in their eyes. He was nearly positive this wasn't the same world as Eta—and it wasn't like strip clubs were exactly an oddity, not in any world he could think of. Boys would be boys, no matter the circumstances.

Nobody seemed to be trying to kill him, which was a nice change—all the men were focused on various dancers or their own sense of hiding—so he simply stayed still, using the shadows and lights as his invisibility. No one ever needed to worry about staying hiding in a strip club; it was a given. He knew that if he was ever to get an idea of this world past its poles and high heels, he was going to have to move eventually. For now, it was nice to sit and have nothing be his fault, not the lives of the girls on the stage or the thoughts of the men off it.

Over the too-loud PA system, there was a sudden, bravura announcement. "And now in the center ring, gentlemen, give it up for the main event, Jessica!"

The name sounded familiar, and the instant he saw her he knew why. Long blond hair and longer legs, features sharp enough to cut through the smoke and shadows. Niki Sanders—or, at least, her murderous alter ego, who Peter had liked rather more, anyway. She was violent but at least she was strong—she'd always been someone to count on, whereas sweet Niki had only been good for a teary smile.

He watched her for a moment, too worn down and desensitized to appreciate, and then his eyes were drawn away. He wasn't caught by some spray-tanned beauty on a catwalk but by something that his senses liked even better—the sight of himself. Like the inability to walk past a mirror without glancing, his eyes caught Omicron-Peter before he was fully aware of what he was seeing, moving through the crowd, sitting at the bar a few stool away.

Nobody in the crowd seemed to react as Peter weaved around them, a few people throwing confused glances where he'd brushed them as if they couldn't see him at all. Of course, that was the answer—he seemed to be invisible, detectable only to what was essentially his own self. Omicron-Peter didn't notice his double as instantly, though; he seemed to be very tunneled, very internally focused, not even glancing around at the club full of people who couldn't see him. When he turned, Peter saw that he had a huge scar running diagonally across his face, from chin to forehead like the slash of a sword. His first thought was _Ouch!! _and his second, less instinctual reaction was _Wonder how _that _ happened. _

He sat silently watching Omicron-Peter, waiting for him to do something angry and drastic, as he felt this incarnation of himself might, but nothing happened beyond a few drinks. Peter wasn't sure how he felt about this—on one hand, he had no desire to engage in any kind of epic battle with himself. It was a possibility he hadn't considered until now, but this Peter looked so obviously dark and conflicted that it was starting to come up in his mind. On the other hand—he sort of felt like taking someone out. He knew that the violence he seemed to be craving would only serve to validate Caitlin's words, the ones that were playing on a loop in his head like some kind of penance. He couldn't help feeling, though, that a good fight would be immensely helpful—there was nothing more instantly cathartic than a good punch to someone's jaw.

Self-absorbed Omicron-Peter barely moved at all for nearly ten minutes, and Peter copied his stillness, watching, absorbing nothing useful for mapping but always fascinated to see his own body moving, reacting separately of him. Then, the silhouette of Niki (Jessica?) Sanders broke from the dark and crossed to Peter, leaning over the bar. "How are the receipts tonight, Marco?" she asked the bartender.

"It was a good night, ma'am," Marco responded, putting down two glasses in front of her, as if this was an old habit, a familiar exchange with expected outcome.

Omicron-Peter put a hand out and drew one of the glasses across the bar, pulling it into his hand. As he caught it, he shaded into visibility again, all attention on Niki. "You don't have to be here," she said, but Peter could tell she appreciated his presence, her body bending to him. "I told you that I can handle it."

"What did he want?" Omicron-Peter asked, jerking his head to the lounge across the way. Peter was surprised—so he _had_ been paying attention to something beyond his own brooding, after all. Peter didn't even know what he was talking about, which "he" Omicron-Peter had been watching so subtly as to not let him notice.

"What do you think?" Niki said, sharply cynical. "He's still trying to stop an exploding man." Peter made a mental note—in this universe, the bomb had gone off. Which went a long way toward explaining the angry faces and bad moods.

Omicron-Peter started to respond, then stopped, mouth halfway open, eyes focused on something—focused on Peter. Peter had a split second of sheer panic at the expression on Omicron-Peter's face, the way he moved and then disappeared, popping into thin air in a way that wasn't invisibility because Peter had no idea where he'd gone. He tried to calm himself as he searched the room for his missing double, watching Niki warily for any threatening movement—he'd been in this kind of situation before. It was disorienting to see yourself stare you in the face, but everyone got over it—and _nobody _wanted to kill their own self. He was sure he wasn't in any danger.

He was wrong.

In the next millesecond, Omicron-Peter popped back into existence, teleported behind the bar inches from Peter. His hand lashed out and grabbed Peter's wrist, and then they were both catapulting into the grey nothing of teleportation, slingshotted by Omicron-Peter to somewhere Peter couldn't begin to guess. When they came back into being he could see a huge metal structure, but his feet weren't touching anything. The structure came into focus quickly—the Brooklyn Bridge. _What's my thing with this bridge? _Peter wondered wildly. _Why do I come back to it?_ _Strip clubs and bridges—I'm sure a psychiatrist could make something of that. _Omicron-Peter was standing on the very edge of the bridge, and had switched his grip so that his fists were buried in Peter's collar, holding him hanging midair.

"Who are you?" he yelled over the tear of the wind. "_Who are you?_"

"I'm _you_!" Peter yelled back, and to prove his point, he began levitating himself until he was level with Omicron-Peter, flying for proof of authenticity.

He expected some kind of positive response, but Omicron-Peter was not even nearly convinced. He dropped Peter's jacket—obviously the grip was unnecessary now—and grabbed his throat instead. Peter was surprised enough to let him—he was paranoid to a fault, but he couldn't have seen it coming from _himself. _There seemed to be a serious flaw in his defense system, that way. Omicron-Peter spun him and slammed him up against the nearest steel girder, crushing his windpipe almost immediately, collapsing it in.

"Who are you?" he repeated. "Where did you come from?"

But Peter had had enough self-destruction. He grabbed Omicron-Peter's wrists and sent flames out through his hands, charring the skin to black within seconds, then at the same time got his feet between them and planted them on Omicron-Peter's chest, _shoved_ him away. Omicron-Peter snapped back instantly, flung away with all the force of Peter's superstrength, landing on his hands and knees and rolling into the street with all its rushed New York speeding traffic. Peter had a moment of heart-in-mouth terror, his healing windpipe flaring with pain as he gasped, watching the cars and taxis completely fail to stop for him, but Omicron-Peter was curling in to anticipate the hit and then _pop_ he was gone.

Peter was ready for it this time, paying attention to where the space was bending and he knew a split second before Omicron-Peter appeared, directly behind him on the sidewalk of the bridge. He spun and latched onto the first abilities he could think of, freezing time and freezing Omicron-Peter's feet up to the knee, ensuring that he would stay still for at least a few minutes.

"Hey!" he said loudly as Omicron-Peter started to realize what had happened. "Hey, this is a waste of time! Just listen to me for thirty seconds, then I'll leave, no problem, right?" Omicron-Peter shot him a glare and put his hands palm-down, sending fire down to his legs to melt the ice away—obviously a _no_. Peter sighed and built the ice back up, freezing him to mid-thigh. "Thirty seconds," he repeated. "Listen, I'm from an alternate universe, all I want is to know about yours. Just give me some kind of Reader's Digest timeline, tell me what happened here, and I'll leave."

Omicron-Peter continued to glare, and Peter could see the familiar vein pulsing in his neck. It was almost scary—he'd never seen himself looking so hollowly furious, so filled to the top with kinetic anger. He'd thought he needed a fight but he didn't, it had only made him tired and confused—this guy looked like he lived for the chance to smash things out of existence, fight the pain away because nothing else got through him anymore. It _was _scary, it was terrifying—not as an immediate threat but as a possibility. Peter had a sudden concern for how he was going to turn out.

"Fine," Omicron-Peter spat. "I blew up the city and then everyone's life sucked. That enough for you?"

"Just a couple of questions," Peter said, feeling like a doctor, trying to diagnose a sick world. "Do they know about us here? I mean, do they know what we can do?"

"Yes," Omicron-Peter said shortly, and there was a world of explanation behind the answer that Peter didn't want to touch.

"Okay. How about Claire Bennet? Do you know who she is? Where is she?"

"You mean the cheerleader who we were supposed to save so we could save the world? Oh wait, that didn't work. Haven't seen her. She's probably dead."

"Thanks," Peter said sardonically. "One more question—who's the president?"

Omicron-Peter gave him a strange look, as if the answer were obvious and slightly sensitive. "Nathan is the president," he said, voice purposefully unreadable.

"Oh," Peter said, like a sudden papercut, surprise and shallow pain. "Oh, right. I can see that."

"That's great," Omicron-Peter said impatiently. "You happy?"

Peter flashed him a smile full of things he was always trying not to think about. "Not as a general rule," he said, "but I'm happier than you."

And he disappeared.


	28. Pi

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Just to forestall the guessing (you guys are always alarmingly good at picking up on which universe I'm writing :) I'll tell you right now that this is the universe from my previous fic, "Magnolia". If you haven't read it, don't worry, it'll still make sense to you. If you have read it, you'll just know all the unnecessary backstory :). This chapter does contain one non-canon character, Jonathan Madison, but I've chosen to exclude my other OC, Katie Ramierez, basically because I really, really hate her. Anyway, enjoy!

---

Hiro opened his eyes to yet another view of destruction; a building that was all black and grey and crumbling structure, looking like it had just been gutted by a fire. Beyond the room, over the half-standing walls, he could see an even worse destruction, an uncompromising swath of blackness that stretched from the edges of his building out as far as he could see.

His heart fell as he walked out onto the black, glassy scabland, coughing as he took his first breaths of air that was less oxygen than ash. _It's the bomb again, _he thought sadly to himself, searching the dead, flat land for any movement, any survivors who could confirm the obvious. "Damn it!" he said out loud, kicking a piece of nearby debris, which responded by collapsing instantly in a pile of grey-flake ash. He was starting to think that this was a past they couldn't change. How many universes had he come into that had looked like skeletons and smelled of burned-away life? So many choices that had led to this place, just like their universe, exactly like their own casual horrors. Maybe they were wasting their time. Maybe this bomb was just unavoidable, and maybe they should just learn to deal.

Just as he was about to talk himself into throwing the whole thing, his eye was caught by an unusual color—green. Even three years after the bomb in his own world, there still wasn't much green; green meant life, and they had none of that. No trees and no grass, no attempts to regrow in the dry, acidic ground. Here, though, at Ground Zero, where there should have been nothing but the scorched obsidian black, there was one strange circle of green. He walked over to it and bent to touch the grass, as if he suspected it wasn't real at all—except it was. It bent to his fingers and felt like real grass, preposterously alive, a twenty-foot-wide perfect circle of non-destruction.

He couldn't imagine what could have happened here. The bomb, of course, that was easy—but why this patch of survival? It was crop-circle level of weird, an unexplainable phenomenon that would have demanded unraveling even if he hadn't been committed to map this timeline.

He stood, searching the skeleton-city for movement once again. There was a circle of grass here, a protected patch of survival—and that meant there were survivors, _had_ to be. Someone had found a way to block it out somehow, it was the only explanation. And that meant someone was still alive here. He threw caution out the window—he could always teleport away if anything came at him—and turned, facing the burned-away city.

"Hey!" he yelled as loudly as he could. "_Hey!_ Is there anyone here? Can anyone hear me?"

Nothing. An echo back from the gravestone buildings, throwing his voice at him and telling him there was nobody, nothing within the sound of his voice. He stood a minute still, waiting, watching for the sliver of a possibility. Then, as he was about to mark this world a corpse and retreat—movement. A person emerging from out of one of the gutted building frames, a couple of hundred feet away and moving closer, silhouette forming into somebody that he definitely knew: Claire Bennet.

She looked so strange against the backdrop of black and char-grey, so out-of-place, like a doll with her blond curls and blue eyes. Inappropriate; it seemed like someone should have swept her out of this terrible place already and put her somewhere she belonged, Paris or a smalltown diner. She was ornamental—she was not meant for disaster, it hurt just to see her kicking up the piles of ash as she walked.

But as she got closer to him, he saw the healing scrapes and bruises, the messy unbrushed ponytail, the same ash sifted across her clothes and smeared on her face. Somehow, impossibly, she _did _fit here. There was a second level of strength that had something to do with her invincibility, a rarely-visible grit that was at the surface here. Hard to believe, but Claire Bennet did have more than curls and prettiness. Looking at her here, he did believe it, but he remembered other Claires and knew that it was still in her to be purely, uselessly ornamental. It could go either way, and he wasn't sure which one was worse.

She didn't seem alarmed to see him—pleasantly surprised, perhaps at the sight of another survivor, but not angry or frightened, which was always a plus in these unpredictable alternate worlds. "Hiro!" she called, waving to him as she got close enough.

"Claire!" he called in obligatory response, walking forward to greet her.

"How did you get here?" she asked as she reached him, taking his hands, eyes fully lit with surprise. "Are you okay? Were you in the city when it went off, or did you just get here?"

"I just got here," he said, taking the easy answer. For the first time, he thought he might be able to take an easy way out of all the explaining. If their Hiro Nakamura wasn't anywhere around, and they knew who he was and didn't consider him an enemy—well, then why not just fake it? He would see if he could. "What happened, Claire?"

"We're in a building back there," she pointed. "It's the most stable one we could find, and it's near a mostly undestroyed grocery store, so we've got food and things. Come on, everyone will want to see you."

"Who's everyone?" he wanted to know as she pulled him back the way she'd come. "What happened here?"

"Remember the whole exploding man thing?" she explained as they picked their way through the scattered debris. "Well, the good news is, it wasn't Peter. Sylar and Peter were having this hardcore showdown in the park, and Sylar killed this radioactive guy, Ted Sprague. Problem was, he couldn't control the radioactivity and he started going nuclear right there. Peter picked up this shielding ability awhile back, and Claude's been teaching him how to use it to shield the city against the bomb. He was just going to have to throw a huge bubble shield and contain the explosion—I mean, he's got my invincibility, so it wouldn't kill him, and everything outside the bubble would be safe.

But the problem was, all of us were with him when Sylar started going off, and he knew that if he trapped the explosion in with him, we would all die too. So, he shielded the explosion out instead of in, and we were fine—but the city, um…wasn't."

He could hear the strange tone in her voice as she finished the story, the sandpaper of survivor's guilt, and he knew she blamed herself for the ruined buildings like burned trees, ugly skeletal vertical, the cutout swath of explosion and its miles-long effects. It was a pretty striking story, he had to admit—instantly he felt sorry for Peter, having to make the decision and then, having to live with it. Shield in or shield out. Friends and family, or an entire city. He wasn't sure what _he _would have done, and not sure at all which was actually the right choice.

She led him around the back of a cinderblock structure, still mostly intact and strong enough to serve as a shelter. As they slid through a hole of missing cinderblocks, he began to see the people inside. Bennet, of course—Hiro hadn't seen a universe yet where Noah Bennet was dead, and he doubted he would ever see one. Some things never changed; some people just refused to die, sustained by sheer force of will. Claude Rainns, over in a corner with Peter, engaged in some deep and probably sarcastic discussion, most likely trying to convince a very haunted-looking Peter that suicide was not a viable option. Then, some teenage boy he didn't recognize, black hair turned almost grey with the ash, tall with a slightly crooked mouth. There was makeshift bedding lying in various places across the floor, and stacked cans of food along the wall, and it looked like a refugee camp—like the first attempts at survival after the worst things possible.

"Hiro!" Peter was the first to notice him, standing from his corner and crossing to where they stood in the entrance. "What are you—were you here when the bomb went off? How did you—?"

"I wasn't here," Hiro said ambiguously. "I heard about an explosion and I teleported in."

"Explosion is right," the black-haired kid said sardonically. "Is anyone coming to get us, or what?"

"Sorry," Claire said. "You two haven't met, have you? This is Hiro Nakamura, Jonathan. Hiro, this is Jonathan Madison. He's a jerk."

Jonathan raised an eyebrow but didn't bother to refute her blithe assessment. "Nice to meet you, I'm sure," he said impatiently. "Now can we please answer my question? When are they sending people in to clean this up?"

"I don't know if anyone knows you're here," Hiro said. He didn't know, of course—this wasn't his world—but it was a good guess. This kind of destruction, a citywide apocalypse with five survivors? There was a possibility they wouldn't be found for months, and who knew how long they could survive on canned green beans.

"Well then, it's a good thing you're here," Bennet said, logical and commanding as always, not seeming changed at all by the destruction of a worldwide capital. "You can get some help for us."

"I can?"

"Of course you can," Bennet continued calmly. "You can teleport to the nearest National Guard post and tell them that there are survivors, tell them where we are and that they need to come get us. In fact, you might even want to exaggerate our numbers so they'll find it more urgent to rescue us."

"You mean right now?" Of all the universes he'd visited, this was the first one where Hiro had found himself drafted into work. Then again, it was true—he could help, and therefore he was sort of obligated to. Still, he resented the order simply on principle, and his natural response was to rebel a little bit. "Why can't Peter do it?"

They all glanced to Peter, then glanced away quickly, fearing that he'd seen their concern and pity. Looking at Peter, eyes like he hadn't slept in days and might not ever again, the answer to his question was obvious. "Never mind," he said quickly. "I'll do it."

He had all he needed from this dimension, anyway—he knew what had happened and why, and it was probably time to go home and map it. With one last glance at the five survivors, he closed his eyes and focused carefully, telling his mind _National Guard_ but also instructing it firmly that it was to stay within this universe, and to take him to the closest place possible.

There was a sudden, violent change in his surroundings, and when he heard the sound of men's voices, he opened his eyes. He was in some kind of military post, definitely, and it seemed that they weren't ignorant of the disaster at all—there was a slight sprinkle of ash from the sky like the aftermath of a volcano, and people were walking quickly around with an urgent step, looking very serious.

He wasn't worried about the reaction to his teleporting—he only needed to be here for a few seconds, and then he would be gone again. Besides, this explosion was too big to cover up—if he had to guess, he would have said that the Specials in this world weren't going to remain a secret for very much longer.

He grabbed the arm of the nearest man walking past and delivered his message, telling him, "I just came from New York City, where the explosion just went off—I wanted to tell you that there are thirty-four survivors in the center of the city, near Kirby Park. Understand? More than thirty survivors, and they need help."

He didn't wait for the man's response—he watched for comprehension, and then closed his eyes and disappeared, throwing himself back home with a sudden weariness. It felt good to see the hard lines of the Loft again, the structured civilization of his home, the strung-up timelines that meant there could be a solution, and if there was, they were going to find it.

He saw Peter sitting on the stairs, peeling an orange, looking much calmer and more in-control than when he'd left. _Funny, _he thought. Perhaps Peter's universe had had a good influence on him, which was certainly out of the ordinary. His universe, in fact, had left him feeling a little hopeless, a little less sure that they weren't wasting their time altogether. "Hey," he called over. "What'd you get?"

"Another strip club," Peter said wearily. "You?"

"Another apocalypse," Hiro replied.

They looked at each other for a moment, sharing the difficulty of having done this for weeks, the worry that they wouldn't be able to save the world, and that they were in serious danger of not even being able to save themselves. Hiro walked the few steps to the staircase and sat down next to Peter, and they both stared at the crisscross of the strings across the room, wondering if they would ever untangle.

"Peter," he said. "I don't know if we can do this."

"Yeah," Peter said, "but we're probably going to try anyway, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah."


	29. Rho

Usually when Peter woke up in the morning, he felt refreshed. Renewed. A single moment when he was moving between conscious and unconscious when it was like coming up from the grave, not remembering who or what he was but only that he was alive, and there was another day open for him. But his dreams had not been good, and his life had not been good, and today he didn't feel refreshed. His mouth was dry and his thoughts were lead-weighted with the reality he hadn't been able to shake in nearly ten hours of sleep. It was a chore to sit up—he had to force himself to swing his legs out of bed and to stand on the chilly concrete floor. There was nothing pulling him up today, hadn't been for a long time. He had to make it on his own motivation, and it was getting just a little less possible every morning.

He walked past his reflection in the mirror without looking—the quick flash of himself in his peripheral vision was enough to scare him. He could see himself hardening, retracting, rotting. He could remember Omicron-Peter, and his eyes with such honest blank hate, the all-over darkness and anger in the man who it would be so easy to become. He couldn't help it—it was like falling from a cliff and not even grabbing for the edge, paralyzed by circumstance and a rapidly decreasing ability to care. All he had to do was look out the window and see the New York gray, the soot and dirt and smog and small, smutty people with their eyes on the pavement. And there it was, the bitterness, wanting to hate the city and blame it and let it chew him in half.

He walked into the kitchen, passing Hiro at the counter without a word, and Hiro's look let him know that his friend was feeling it, too—the depression like intensified gravity, trying to pull them flat to the ground. Wordlessly, Hiro handed him a cup of coffee, and Peter sat with his cup in hand on the nearest stool, facing the window and not turning, staring masochistically out at the thousand shades of grey. Hiro sat down next to him and they were still—marble-carved park statues, completely out of momentum. Peter felt the coffee growing cold under his hand, and he felt like he would never move again.

Perhaps it was a defense mechanism; perhaps his mind felt his body going sedentary, inert, and instinct kicked in to correct the situation. Suddenly, without quite knowing what he was doing, Peter jumped out of his stool, surprising himself with the abrupt motion. "I—" he said at Hiro's startled look, trying to explain what he was doing. "I don't know. I have to go. I have to do _something_. I'll be back."

He closed his eyes and ripped himself out of the Loft, heading _somewhere_ on pure reflex, teleporting away to wherever his body seemed to want to take him. He only had time to hope he knew what he was doing before it was done, and he was somewhere completely new.

His first impression was of _color_—not the primary Technicolor of Iota universe, but normality, greens and browns and blues that were such a stark contrast to his own destroyed New York City. He could see the skyline in the background, whole and unruined, and there was grass under his feet in an actual lawn, which was certainly not normal for him now. He was so absorbed in the change, sucking it into himself like sunlight, that it was not until someone stepped right in front of him that he remembered why he was there.

He jumped back instinctively, remembering all the responsibility that came with this trip, but the person was not alarming—it was only himself. Strange, that he wasn't frightened at the sight of his own face anymore, but in truth it was much less frightening than some of the people he'd met. After the last universe, though, he was decidedly on his guard—so he backed away from himself, watching warily for attack.

Rho-Peter put his hands up immediately, smiling—_laughing_. Not even alarmed, not even seeming surprised. "Hey," Rho-Peter was saying "Hey, it's all right. Don't worry." _Well, this is a new one_, Peter thought. He swept the area again for some kind of trick, any double-cross to undermine the apparent perfection, but all he saw was a familiar background, a yard and a house—_his _house, the old, ostentatious Petrelli mansion. Just his house, and Rho-Peter smiling like he knew him. "It's okay," Rho-Peter repeated. "I know who you are."

Peter snapped his eyes back to the man, alarmed and confused. "What?" he said, ready to bolt or disappear or defend himself. "How do you know who I am?"

"Because I _was_ you," Rho-Peter explained. "I've been you. I came to exactly this place on exactly this day and time. I knew you were coming."

"Wait," Peter said, trying to wrap him mind around this new twist. "This…is the future?"

"This is _a _future," Rho-Peter allowed. "It's certainly the one we ended up with. This is what we got when we saved the world."

"You did?" Peter said, feeling himself start to light up inside, coming open to the hope that there was a light at the end of the tunnel, or even that there was an end to the tunnel at all. "You mean you actually did it? The bomb went off and then you went back and fixed it?"

"Sure did," Rho-Peter confirmed with a smile—a surprisingly real smile with none of the bitterness Peter was used to seeing on his face. "I went to every universe you have, Peter—the school universe and the Simone-in-the-kitchen universe and yikes, the stripper universe. Wasn't that a nightmare? Yeah, I did all of them, and in the end it turned out just like we wanted."

Peter could feel himself starting to trust this person—because of his knowledge and the proof of his experiences, but mostly because of the hope he was offering like a lifeline, saying all the right things to bring to life a person nearly dead, light and resuscitation. "Really?" he said, animated, thrilled. "_How?_ How did you do it?"

"Ah," Rho-Peter said ruefully. "You know I can't tell you that. I'll wreck the space-time whatever. But hey, let's not talk about that—come inside! Meet the family, we've got dinner waiting for you."

Before Peter could respond to this odd statement, Rho-Peter was already striding across the so-green, alive and carefully-cut lawn, leading him into the familiar house. "Leah!" he yelled as they got in the door. "Milo! Honey, come in here, come meet Peter!"

There was a clatter of small feet and a slower click of heels, and two children ran down the stairs without checking their momentum in the slightest, barreling into the side of Rho-Peter's legs hard enough to make him stumble back, laughing. One boy and one blond little girl, all energy and big eyes as they looked up at the double of their father. The girl giggled, a little confused but delighted by the trick, and Rho-Peter said, "Milo, Leah, this is your daddy when he was younger. He's come to visit."

A gorgeous blond woman walked in from the side door, drying her hands on a towel as she came into the hall, smiling at him with genuine welcome. It took him a moment to recognize her—he'd only seen her once, in another universe, and hadn't exactly been smiling. "Hi," she said, reaching her hand out to him. "I'm Elle. Just a hint—I'm allergic to roses. Remember that."

"Elle," Rho-Peter complained as Peter shook her hand. "Don't tell him _that_, you'll ruin it for him! That's a great story!"

"Oh yeah, great," she responded. "Maybe great for dinner parties, babe, but not so great for the one who has to be rushed to the hospital because her face is swelling up like a balloon. Believe me," she said conspiratorially to Peter, "just bring carnations or something. You won't regret it."

"Always the practical one," Rho-Peter said, wrapping an arm around her waist. "Kids, why don't you go set the table? Everyone else will be here soon."

"Everyone else…?" Peter said, still completely disoriented by the happiness that he wasn't used to, didn't quite believe in anymore.

"Well, Peter and Hiro knew you were coming," Elle explained with a grin. "So we figured, why not give you a nice dinner? Of course, we don't remember it, but they've told us how bad things are for you at this point, so we thought the two of you might appreciate a little break."

"Yeah," Peter said, feeling delirious. "Yeah, that's—what do you mean, the two of us?"

"We'll keep everything warm," Rho-Peter said. "Go get Hiro and bring him back—we've already got his place setting."

"Right," Peter said. "Right. Okay. I can do that."

He didn't want to close his eyes on this one, didn't want to take the chance that it wouldn't be there a second time, but he'd seen Hiro this morning and he knew his friend needed this as much as he did. So he quickly threw himself back home, barely waiting for the Loft to materialize before he spotted Hiro, still in the kitchen, and grabbed him. "Hiro!" he said. "Come on, we have to go, it's fantastic, _wait till you see!"_

Hiro knew instantly that something had gone right—there was an energy to his friend that hadn't been there this morning, a snap to his movements and a spark from his eyes. Peter was _very_ excited about something, and he wasn't going to give Hiro a chance to resist. "What is it?" he tried anyway. "Where are we going?"

"There's this universe," Peter explained hurriedly, words tumbling out over each other. "There's this place where we did it, we saved everybody and everything is perfect and they're making us _dinner_, come on, we have to go!"

Before Hiro could say another word, Peter was closing his eyes and sending them back, too terrified of missing anything to wait any longer. They appeared back in the entryway of the mansion, and Peter could see Hiro reacting exactly as he had, eyes popping open at the normality and perfection of their surroundings.

"Oh good, you're back," Elle said, crossing the hall with a smile. "Nice to meet you, Hiro, I'm Elle."

Behind them, the doorbell rang, echoing against the marble floors and startling Peter, who wasn't used to the sound anymore. Elle maneuvered between them and pulled the door open, revealing a second Hiro standing on the steps with a redheaded girl and a very small child on her hip. "Hiro, Charlie!" Elle greeted them. "Come on in, we're just about to start." She herded them inside, and as they moved toward the dining room suggested, "Why don't you talk to yourself, Hiro, he looks a little confused."

Peter was glad he wouldn't have to do the explaining—he was so sick of explaining, and now it was one less worry as Rho-Hiro grinned at his double, perfectly happy to tell the story. The doorbell rang again as they filed into the dining room, and Peter turned back instinctively, just in time to see Elle open it again for the last person he'd expected to see and the first he would have wanted—Nathan.

He stood frozen where he was, unsure what to do—dying to go to his brother but knowing it wasn't really his brother at all, not sure of what was acceptable in this situation. Nathan solved the problem for him. He dropped his coat in Elle's arms and crossed the hall in three quick steps, grabbing Peter and pulling him into a hug.

Something inside him broke, something he'd thought was essential for survival but not here, not in the place he was trying to get to, and before he knew it he had nearly collapsed against Nathan, wrapping his arms around his brother's neck and burying his face in his shoulder like he used to when he was eight and he'd skinned his knee. He wasn't sure if he was crying or not—his eyes were stinging but he couldn't quite remember what it felt like, hadn't done it in awhile—but he hoped not, didn't want to dump his emotional baggage on this stranger who was kind enough to pretend to be what he needed. All he could think was that this was his brother, and he'd needed this kind of hug for so long but it hadn't been an option, and now it was and it _felt_ real.

"It's okay," Nathan was saying, hugging him tight enough that it was hard to breathe, but that didn't seem to matter very much. "Everything's fine, Pete. You're going to fix it, everything's going to be fine. It's going to be okay."

---

Peter stared at his empty plate with extreme annoyance, as if it had somehow deviously sucked his food away, contrived some evil plan to finish dinner too quickly. He hated his plate for being empty, because that meant that dinner was over, and dinner being over meant that he had to go. He exchanged looks with Hiro across the table and knew that his friend felt the same way, that it was wonderful just to be here but it would hurt to leave, that they wished—

"Can't we just…stay _here_ forever?" he said before he could think about it, vocalizing what he'd been thinking for the last hour.

"Sorry," Rho-Hiro said ruefully. "You know how it would mess things up."

"The longer you stay, the more you're going to want to stay," Rho-Peter said. "We wish you could. It would make things easier, wouldn't it? We're just going to have to tell you what we were told at this point in our lives—just go quickly and try not to regret, and remember that this is your future, if you work it right. It won't hurt for very long."

Every impulse in his body screaming against it, Peter stood, pushing his chair away from the table. He looked at Hiro, then looked around the rest of the table, storing away this universe in snapshots, trying to burn it into his brain. Nathan and his wife, his kids, Nathan smiling, but most of all _Nathan._ Claire, who'd come in late and flushed from teaching gymnastics to very energetic students. Hiro and Charlie and their strange, beautiful redheaded baby, and his own children and smart, gorgeous wife. It was a good future.

He took it in one last time and then got ready to sacrifice it, to leave and make it for himself. He knew what was possible now, so there was a reason to keep breathing, a visible goal. He could do this. "Ready?" he asked Hiro, as the people around the table smiled up at him, encouraging, sympathetic.

Hiro's eyes said _no_ but his mouth lied and said, "Ready."

They closed their eyes and disappeared.


	30. Alpha: Pancakes and Therapy

When Peter and Hiro got home, something was different. New York was still out there, gray and short-tempered, and there was still death and depression and dust-in-your-eyes, but there was something else that made it suddenly all okay. They looked at each other like they had an inside joke, and when they moved it was almost a bounce, defying the gravity that seemed to want to pull them down. They didn't need to talk about it—they both knew what the other was thinking, what it was impossible not to want and hope for after what they'd seen.

"I think I'll go work on the timeline," Peter said lightly, moving toward their mass web of alternate reality. Suddenly there was motivation, and the tedious work was entertaining, artistic; the tangled strings meant something more than a knot now, unraveled eventually into a real pattern.

"Right," Hiro said, understanding what he was doing and what he wasn't saying. "Go for it." He strode toward the kitchen, possessed by the same abrupt energy as Peter. "I think I'm going to make waffles."

---

Audrey woke an unfamiliar smell—something cooking, frying batter—breakfast. Confused and hungry, she wrapped a robe around herself and padded out into the kitchen, still half-asleep and not sure whether she was imagining things.

"Hiro?" she said muzzily, puzzled at the sight of her boyfriend at the stove with a spatula and, even stranger, a smile. "What are you doing?"

"He looked over at her and his smile got even bigger, a sudden pop of bright white teeth. "Good morning, sunshine," he said, uncharacteristically chipper. "Do you know that we don't own a waffle iron?"

"Of course we don't own a waffle iron," Audrey said slowly. "Why would we own a waffle iron?"

He reached an arm out and snagged her around the waist, pulling her to him and kissing her on the cheek. "For making waffles, of course," he said, as if it were perfectly normal, but it _wasn't_, and she pulled away, checking his eyes for signs of alcohol or insanity.

"Hiro, what is going on?" she demanded. "Why are you so—_happy_?"

"You say it like it's a bad thing," he commented, flipping a pancake and catching it neatly in the skillet. She noticed that he wasn't answering her question, and it annoyed her more than was reasonable. She would have thought that she wanted him to be happier, but this was just unnerving, a one-hundred-eighty-degree switch with no warning. "How was your night? You look tired."

"I _am _tired," she snapped, suddenly irritable. "_I _was out all night trying to prevent a raid on Cici's!"

"Oh, darn," Hiro said lightly. "I like that place. Want a pancake?"

"What, you don't even care?" Audrey said, pushing away the plate he was offering, sending the pancakes sliding across its surface so that he had to juggle it quickly to stop them sliding off. "You know, you _used_ to care about this kind of thing." Suddenly, things she hadn't said were bursting out of her, things that bothered her but she'd never meant to say, knew better than to say. It wasn't about the happiness and it wasn't about the pancakes, but the circumstances were simply catalyzing a dam-breaking long past due, things not said because there was no one to say them to, dozens of nights with Hiro in any world but hers. "We used to be on the same page here! You used to _care_ about helping people, saving lives, looking after our own! Now all you ever do is screw around in your silly little universes, spend all your time on things that _aren't real _while everything dies around you! What happened, Hiro?"

"Are we still talking about pancakes, or what?" Hiro said, still refusing to come down, to come back to the gritty grayness of his world. He didn't _have_ to—he knew what was ahead and he didn't have to be depressed about it, it was good and pleasant and very close. He didn't have to let her drag him back to the ground. "Because you're getting pretty upset. You really don't understand what we're trying to do, do you?"

"No, Hiro, that's the point," she said frustratedly. "I _don't_ understand. All I know is that you disappear for hours, and then you come back and put up strings across our living room, and out there—" She flung an arm out to the window, pointing at the half-crumbled buildings and smoke, "_nothing _changes"

Hiro looked at her for a few moments, considering, and then his pancake began to crackle and burn on the skillet, and he turned back. "You look tired," he repeated. "Why don't you go back to bed?"

She gaped at him for a few seconds, wanting him to engage, to scream back at her and let her pour out everything she was feeling. She tried to think of a response that would shake him, that would break his weird, happy calm. She'd already tried yelling and she didn't have the patience for anything else, so she finally settled on a dignified storm-out. She turned on her heel and stalked away, going back to bed as he'd suggested. Maybe, when she woke up, things would be different. Maybe he'd come out and stand on the lines with her, dodging bullets and staging daring escapes and telling each other they would live only moment to moment and never think past it. Danger had always been part of the deal; pancakes was a new one.

She nearly ran Peter down as he emerged from their crisscross of mapped timelines, walking up the steps with the end of a string wrapped around his wrist, stretching it from the other end of the room. "Hey, can you hand me the tape?" he asked as she walked toward him, but she blew past with a vengeance, hitting him with her shoulder as she stormed by, jostling him and making him drop the strong to the ground.

It fell with a hurricane flutter, like butterfly wings and paper cranes, and Peter sighed as he went to pick it up again, commenting, "You know, you're not with her in the future."

"Yeah, well," Hiro said, unfazed. "I kind of love her."

"No you don't," Peter stated calmly.

Hiro didn't reply, only slid his spatula under his last pancake and flipped it over to the plate. "Have some pancakes," he said.

---

"So, you ready to go?" Hiro asked as he put the last dish in the cupboard. "Seven more universes and we're done—we can knock 'em out in a couple days."

"Yeah," Peter said optimistically, putting down the scissors and the tape. "Let's go. No—wait."

"Wait for what?" Hiro asked blankly, unable to think of what could be more important than wrapping it up, than getting it done and finding what they wanted at the finish line. "What is it?"

"Just a second," Peter said decisively. "I'll be right back."

And before Hiro could ask for clarification, he was gone. He wasn't going very far, only a few streets, and it took him less than a full second before the familiar black-and-white décor was around him again, the low tables and café windows. But the café wasn't what he was looking for. He was looking for Caitlin, and he found her standing at the counter, punching buttons on the register and then noticing him, jumping back, afraid of him and of repercussions.

"Hi, Caitlin," he said, unable to keep the slight sarcasm out of his voice. "Calm down, I'm not here to hurt you—because unlike you seem to believe, I'm not a soulless, homicidal terrorist."

The people in the café were eying him with something like panic, unease and alarm and a willingness to bolt at any second, pulling back from the man who had appeared so suddenly. Their reaction didn't bother them—he wasn't going to hurt them and he didn't care if they knew it, he only needed to be here to deliver his message, and then he would be gone.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he repeated, watching Caitlin look around for a weapon or an escape. "I just wanted to tell you that you're wrong."

"What?" Caitlin said, breathless with sudden threat, watching him carefully for retribution.

"You're wrong about me," he said calmly. "Those things that you said to me were completely wrong. You don't know me. You don't know anything about me—and I am _not _the kind of person you think I am. I'm not a terrorist and I'm not a radical. I'm not a murder. I'm not a bad guy. I don't hurt innocent people and I don't _make _people do anything; I'm not responsible for anyone's lives or decisions, no matter how good it might feel to pretend that I am. Our lives suck right now, I know, and I'm trying to fix it, but for you to blame me for the way things are, for everything that's happened—that's not fair.

Yes, I've killed people but I've also saved people, lots of people, I spend my entire _life_ saving people, and if we're talking math, it adds up in my favor, and if we're talking ethics, it's on my side. So I will _not _listen to you tell me I'm a bad person—I am _not _a bad person, I'm a good person. I'm a hero."

He didn't give her a chance to respond—he didn't care. He didn't want to hear her refute his statements because it didn't really matter to him what she said. It mattered that he'd said it, and now he was going to leave and never think of it again, never think of her or wonder what shethought of him. He looked her in the eye with the full purpose of what he meant, and then he threw himself back home.

Hiro was waiting for him when he got back, patient but curious, waiting for answers that he knew might or might not come.

"All right," Peter said calmly. "We can go now."


	31. Sigma

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I've been looking back through my reviews, trying to remember who gave me the idea for this one, and--I can't find you. I'm so sorry, I feel really ungrateful! If this sounds familiar to anyone, please let me know and I'll give you credit.

---

Hiro was used to the feeling of disorientation when he jumped, the sucking black-hole split-second between worlds. It was uncomfortable but he'd gotten used to it—he knew what to expect. He knew, then, that what he _shouldn't _expect was to feel the jump cut short by a sudden stop, as solid as if he'd run into a wall, sixty to zero. He felt as if he'd literally collided with something, knocked himself silly—but what was there to collide with in space and time? He shook his head, and things started coming back into focus—he was in some kind of reality, thank God. He didn't want to think about the dangers of screwing up teleportation—it was probably why he'd never stopped to think of them before.

The first thing he noticed was the most alarming: he seemed to be hanging in midair, wholly unsupported, just—floating. This alone induced an immediate freak-out—Peter was the one who stepped out of windows and jumped off bridges, not him. He wasn't terribly _afraid_ of heights, per se, he was just very used to having his feet on the ground. He was going to need some kind of explanation for this.

He was alarmed, but not panicked, up until the point when he first tried to move his legs. They didn't move. He tried his arms—nothing. He tried jumping, swiveling, wiggling his fingers—absolutely nothing. _Great_, he thought, suddenly much more concerned. _Not _only _am I__ trapped in midair, I can't _move_. This is great. This is fantastic. This had better be one of those nice, non-apocalyptic worlds, and there had _better _be an explanation for this!_

He seemed to be in some kind of nondescript, cinderblocked room, a few hundred by a few hundred feet, no door or windows at all. That was it—cinderblocks and nothingness. The only other thing he could see was metal of some kind, strips of metal running up the walls directly to his right and left, but he could only see them out of the corner of his eye—couldn't turn to look at them or decipher what they were.

It wasn't often that he envied Peter his powers. Yes, Peter was something of a wonder, the way the abilities came into him without effort, the way he sucked it all up and poured it back out without a thought, instantly acclimatized. Still, Hiro was rarely jealous, because his own ability was so godlike-fantastic, so nearly limitless, that he didn't have time to envy anyone else. But then, Peter was the Swiss Army Knife of Specials, and there were occasions when it occurred to Hiro that multiple powers might come in handy. Now, for instance—he was in a bad spot, and starting to think about how nice it would be to have some mindreading abilities, or telekinesis, or even good old flamethrowing.

Just as he was starting to think he'd be stuck there, inexplicably midair, for the rest of his life, things began to explain themselves. In the obvious absence of a door, he'd been wondering how people were meant to get into or out of this room, _if _they were meant to get into or out of it, but directly in front of him there was a sudden bend in the air. He was used to the feeling in the atmosphere and he knew what was happening the split second before it did, knew where to focus his eyes to see two women teleport into the room.

One of them he recognized instantly; it was easy. She was his sister, Kimiko, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen her. It was a strange sucker-punch from the past, seeing her standing there looking like old memories and harshness, reminding him of things that weren't particularly painful, just—forgotten. In his world, Kimiko was not dead. His sister was alive, and so was his father, they had simply chosen a different path, and chosen to pretend that his path didn't exist. He was the redheaded stepchild of the family, the non-Company enemy renegade. He'd become the Dangerous Terrorist and they'd become the Corporate Sellouts. He hadn't heard from them in years; their lives didn't mesh.

Seeing her was enough to make him wonder, though—if things could have worked out differently. If they _had_ worked out differently, here. The way she looked at him, tired, disapproving, made him think immediately otherwise. Perhaps some things were inevitable.

The other girl, he didn't know, didn't recognize and didn't have time to puzzle over in light of his sister's sudden reentry into his life. She was skinny and elfin, with a pixie-cut bob of brown hair and eyes that swallowed the rest of her face, dewy, doelike. Kimiko was giving him a very disapproving look, big-sister-to-little-brother weariness, but the other woman was the one who stepped forward.

"Hiro Nakamura," she said, walking up to him, shorter than him by the several inches he was hanging in midair. She put her hand on his paralyzed arm and, standing on tiptoe, snapped a slim metal cuff around his wrist. "Do you have a permit for entry into our dimension?"

While he tried to work out what this could possibly mean, Kimiko strode to the wall and pressed several buttons on the metal stripping he'd seen. Instantly, the frozen suspension was gone, his body released from its eerie float, and he crumpled to the ground in a heap, legs too surprised to hold him. "What—?" he asked as he got ungracefully to his feet. "What permit? What do you mean?"

"I didn't think so," she said, and as she bent over him he read the tag on her blue uniform: MCCAIN. "Hiro Nakamura, I'm going to have to ask you to leave this universe at once. We cannot allow you in our dimension due to the risk of interdimensional rift. Nothing personal, Mr. Nakamura—just go."

"Wait, what?" Hiro said, now even more confused than he had been, which in itself was quite a feat. "What is this cuff thing? What does it do? Why can't I stay? I mean—do you get time-travelers _often_? And how can you two even teleport at all? Kimiko, I _know_ you can't—only I can teleport! And why do you seem so damn prepared for this?"

"I'm sorry," Kimiko said coolly. "We understand your desire to explore worlds other than your own, but we cannot answer your questions nor can we allow you to travel freely in our universe. The cuff will stop you teleporting through the space and time of our world, and it is not going to come off, so don't ask. You are still able to teleport in all other dimensions, but your abilities will be restricted in this one for as long as your wear the cuff. It would be best for all of us if you leave right now."

But Hiro wasn't _nearly _out of questions yet, and none of his original ones were being answered. "What was that—paralyzing thing? How did you catch me like that? Who made it so you can all teleport? You don't understand, I can't leave until I know these things, I'm trying to save the world—"

"Listen, buddy," McCain said, heart-shaped face turning to an incongruous hardness. "We get that one all the time. Everybody's trying to save the world, and that's great—but our world doesn't need saving. We already have a Hiro Nakamura, and we're really trying not to gum up the works here. You're going to have to choose to leave yourself—we don't have the technology to throw you out of our world, but I can tell you that you're not going anywhere in this one. Either leave now, or we're going to have to throw you in a holding cell somewhere until you decide to go back to your own world. Understand?"

Hiro thought about it for a minute. Was there any chance that they could sort things out with only twenty-five out of twenty-six universes? This world was certainly proving to be hostile, and _strange_, so technically different in theory and practice. _I would certainly rather wash my hands of this one and just get the hell out, but—_. But. There it was. Twenty-five out of twenty-six was not going to be enough. They needed to be one hundred percent, if they were ever going to get to that Rho universe. He wasn't taking any chances. "No," he said. "Sorry. I can't yet. I swear I won't screw anything up, I've been doing this for weeks—I just need to ask you a few questions."

Kimiko and the McCain woman exchanged quiet sighs. "Can I—" McCain started.

Kimiko cut her off almost immediately. "Eden, you know we're not allowed to use that kind of influence on outworlders. The space-time continuum…"

"Well, it would be a hell of a lot easier," Eden said ruefully, taking his arm. "Now we're going to have to wait for him to persuade _himself."_

---

The jail cell looked like any other jail cell—a perverse bit of familiarity in this world that seemed to delight in bending his reality all out of proportion. He'd certainly been in jail cells before—the difference was, though, that none of them had ever been able to hold him. It had always been just a wake-up behind bars, a quick thought, and he was out again—nothing in his world short of pain and death could stop him from going where he wanted to go.

This cell was another story; it was actually functioning in the way that cells were meant to, and he was finding it very frustrating. It was actually holding him in, with the help of a slim silver cuff and an inability to walk through bars. It was funny, the way he'd never really thought about how he travelled, the casual thought, the effortless jump, but now it was gone and it had left claustrophobia in its place.

Fortunately, he didn't have much time to brood. He was a very good brooder—he'd had years of practice, and could brood himself right out of commission in five minutes flat if given the chance. This time, though, he wasn't allowed to, was distracted by the entrance of something else familiar. Eden McCain appeared out of the air, escorting a very mutinous-looking Claire Bennet into the hall, glancing at him with mild surprise as she passed.

"What, you're still here?" she said, but didn't wait for a reply—she pushed Claire into the cell across from him and swung the door shut, bustling away as if she had a thousand other important things to do.

"_Damn _it!" was the first thing Claire said, slamming a hand against the bars. She looked different, and Hiro was fairly sure it was more than her unusually short haircut. Certainly angrier. Possibly wearing too much eye-makeup—he wasn't exactly an expert in that area. She was definitely older, and wearing clothes that seemed too tight for his conception of her, too clinging and too low-cut. "Damn it," she repeated, flopping down on the uncomfortable prison cot.

"Something wrong?" he asked casually, suddenly seeing a way out of this whole situation.

She gave him a quick glance. "You look like Hiro Nakamura. Are you from another universe?"

"Yeah," he admitted easily. "Are you?"

"Unfortunately not," she intoned dryly. "Believe me, it would be nice."

"So what are you in for?" he said, half-ironic, digging for information.

She rolled her eyes and slumped further down on the bed. "They caught me trying to jump to another universe. I've been planning for _weeks_ and they caught me." Her tone was petulant, childish—but under that, there was another layer that sounded something like desperation. "She-Hitler Nakamura sensed a disturbance in the Force, or _whatever._ It was my one chance to get _out _of this place, but instead I ended up in here. They slapped a cuff on me and told me they're transferring me to the state penitentiary in the morning."

"Really?" Hiro said, making an effort to sound understanding, though in fact he was still quite confused. "That seems a little—harsh."

She raised her eyebrows. "Well, it's not like it's my first offense."

"Listen," he said, moving closer to the bars, hoping this pleather-clad sharp-tongued Claire Bennet would be willing to help him if he asked. "I told you I'm from another universe, right? Well, I need to know about this one. Do you think you could explain some things for me?"

"What is it, like, industrial espionage, or something?" she said, interested.

"Something like that," he equivocated. "Want to help?"

"'S not like I have anything better to do," she said wryly. "Shoot."

"Well, generally," he said, trying to think of a better way to state the question, "what the hell is going on with this universe? Why can you all teleport? Can _everybody _teleport?"

"Yeah," she said, giving him a look like he was the confusing one—and in her world, he probably was. "You just—get your license when you're sixteen, and they give you a shot…everybody does it."

"Where did this teleporting thing come from?" he asked, boggled at the thought of a whole world full of teleporters. "I mean—who invented it, do you know?"

She gave him a strange grin, Puckishly amused. "_You _invented it," she informed him. "You and your dad and that Suresh family. It's been around for _years_, everybody uses it."

"But you're not allowed to teleport to any other worlds," he clarified. "That seems like kind of a big deal here."

"Most people don't even know there _are_ other worlds," Claire told him with a slight tone of superiority. "I just happen to make a habit of going through my dad's files—I found out awhile ago and I was like, I _have _to try this. But yeah, officially it's illegal. They're all about the freaking space-time continuum, apparently it's so damn fragile you can't even _breathe _on it wrong."

"Believe me, it's not that fragile," Hiro told her, thinking of his own world-bending exploits. "But if you know about that, maybe you can explain something else to me. When I teleported into your universe, I got kind of—stuck. Something caught me and suspended me, I was completely paralyzed until someone came and got me. Can you tell me what that was?"

"Oh, that's just something they rigged up to keep the continuum all squeaky-clean," she said. "It was my dad's idea, actually, it's pretty clever. It works like flypaper, I guess—it catches anyone trying to teleport _into_ our universe and holds them, slings them straight into that one area. Don't ask me how it works, because I don't know and don't care. I want to get _out, _not in."

"Is it really that bad here?" He wondered why he was even asking—his experience so far pointed to yes, it was that bad. A restrictive, strange, airless universe with rules that he didn't understand.

"I don't know," she said, kicking her feet. "I guess it depends on who you are. If you're an inbred Company brat then the answer is _yes_. I'm just expected to grow up and join the corps, step right into line and make sure everyone else is properly restricted. They had the little blue uniform already made up for me—I was _expected _ to be a team player. But come on!" she said, suddenly violent again, passionate or maybe just angry. "There are whole other _worlds _out there! I'm sure you understand, you've _seen_ them, you've actually _been _places, but us? Not a chance. They're not even the _slightest_ bit interested in seeing what else is out there, and they make sure nobody else is, either. If Columbus were alive today, they would have shot him."

He had all the information he needed now, a sketchy outline of this universe with which to draw a map, and he knew he should be going. If Kimiko had been telling the truth, nothing would stop him from leaving this universe, he could just give it a thought and be gone. But something tugged him about this Claire Bennet, face striped over with the shadows of bars, boots clanging against the frame of her bed. She was so brash and frayed, obnoxiously escapist, but there was still a lot of Claire in her. His sense of heroism went out to her a little, her restrictions and her bleedingly desperate desire to escape them. He really sort of wanted to help her.

But he couldn't. Assurances of continuum stability notwithstanding, he knew very well the consequences of _really_ screwing with things, pulling necessary pieces out of block-buildings. This girl would have to make her own escape.

"Thanks," he said, standing.

"Wait!" she said, sitting bolt upright at his movement. "What are you doing? Are you leaving? You know how to get out of here, right? Take me with you!"

"Sorry," he said, and meant it.

"No, wait—"

Feeling as if he was doing something very wrong, he closed his eyes and deserted her to her world.

---

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hooplah made an astute request last chapter that I post an outline of all the universes, to help the readers keep track of them. I know it's extremely tricky for _me _to keep them all straight, it just never occurred to me that y'all would, obviously, have the same problem. So, here's an outline of all the universes I've written so far, and once I finish with all twenty-six I'll post a full outline. Some of my labels are pretty obscure, but this is how I keep them straight, so hope it makes sense :).

Alpha: Core universe.

Beta: Simone in the kitchen.

Gamma: George Orwell universe.

Delta: Concentration camp.

Epsilon: Paireverse

Zeta: Simon and Monty.

Eta: Stripperverse.

Theta: Shantiverse.

Iota: Thunderbirds.

Kappa: Freak Nation universe.

Lambda: Apocalyverse.

Mu: Bitch Claire universe.

Nu: Clint Eastwood universe.

Xi: Canon universe.

Omicron: Five Years Gone universe.

Pi: Magnoliaverse.

Rho: Hopeful future.

Sigma: Space-time police.


	32. Tau: Mousetrap

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sorry so short! This is a two-chapter segment, and it was tricky to find a way to slice it up. I'll have Part Two up soon, I swear it. Thanks again for your patience and support!

---

Adam's eyes snapped open, their clear blue color distorted by an annoyed glare. "Stop. Pacing," he said, biting off each word.

"Sorry," Sylar snapped back. "So sorry, Immortal Guy. I know you've got all the time in the world, but _I've_ been waiting for this for months now."

"Well then, you can wait a little longer," Adam intoned, rubbing his temple to soothe his sudden headache. "He'll be here any minute."

"I don't even know why I need you here," Sylar muttered. "They're _my _paintings."

"Yes," Adam allowed, "and it was _my _idea, so stop trying to muscle me out. It's stupid and dangerous for you, and it's not going to happen."

Sylar strode over to the far wall of the Loft, looking up at his paintings like they were therapy, staring hard at the line of paintings along the bottom. A picture of Peter Petrelli, dressed all in black with a different haircut, standing in the middle of a mass of crisscrossed strings. Peter Petrelli in some flat-modern café, sitting across from Claire Bennet and smiling. Peter Petrelli tied to a chair with a needle in his arm, Sylar and Adam standing over him with the New York skyline behind them. "He'll be here," he said, mostly speaking to himself. "The paintings are never wrong. He'll be here."

"I _know_," Adam said tiredly. "And can I say, perhaps you should look into taking some art lessons? These looked better when Isaac Mendez did them. I'm surprised you can decipher them at all."

"You can leave the deciphering to me," Sylar said, patronizing. "It's not very complicated: Peter Petrelli from another universe, Peter Petrelli coming here. Us catching him. Easy."

"If it were that easy, you would have been able to catch him in _this _world," Adam sniped. "I don't understand why you can't just leave well enough alone, admit that he's a better man than you and back down."

"Why do you say things like that?" Sylar said, eerily calm as he studied his works of art. "Why do you even have to bring it up? I've never understood—you just prod and prod at people until they snap."

"Not just any person," Adam said with a shark smile. "You're special."

Sylar finally left his paintings and came back to his corner of the room, pacing. "Good thing you need me, then."

"From your perspective, I suppose it is a good thing," Adam said dryly. "There isn't room for two really high-class villains in a world at once."

"What, you're saying you think you could take me?" Sylar smiled, pouring his pent-up aggressions into the pointless challenge.

"Hello," Adam said dryly. "Immortal."

"Means nothing if you know where to put the bullets," Sylar said, unwilling to concede the theoretical victory. He'd never come up against anyone who could beat him, he was too powerful, had taken too many abilities.

Except Peter, of course. But he tried not to think about Peter. Things would be different after today. He couldn't beat Peter, because Peter always had everything he had, always acquiring within seconds any advantage Sylar got his hands on. After today, the field would be level—Adam had told him about these parallel universes, and as soon as he'd painted one things fell right into place, played right into his hands. The other Peter would come, and he wouldn't be expecting anything, wouldn't be looking for the attack. An instant of advantage of surprise, and then he'd take everything in the other Peter's head—and then at last there would be an even match.

"I don't know that you do," Adam responded. "Ah, well, it's a moot point. Hooray alliances."

"Good thing we're allies, too," Sylar said casually, prodding back. It was mostly boredom, this pointless sparring—but it was also partially something more serious. The inability of two Alpha males to get along, to take orders, to admit another's dominance. Two very strong personalities trapped in a room with nothing tying them but a thin thread of a plan. "Otherwise, I might be inclined to call up the Nakamuras and tell them where you are. Immortal or not, I'm sure a family of angry Japanese women could find some way to tear you limb from limb. Out of curiosity, what would even happen then? Would you regenerate the limbs—or would they each grow a new Adam? Because five Adams is a pretty terrifying thought. I don't know if I could stand it."

"Go ahead and call them," Adam smirked. "If you can _find _any."

"What, you wiped them all out?" Sylar asked, trying not to be impressed. "I thought you only had an insane vendetta for Hiro."

"I did. That was part of it. I killed them all first, destroyed everything he loved, drove him crazy—_then_ killed him. It's not just a murder, Sylar, it's an art. That's the part _you_ don't quite seem to understand. No poetry to _your_ kills, just smashed-in heads and broken corpses. You've got a lot to learn."

"Thanks, sensei," Sylar said, annoyed. "Anytime I want to become a pathetic, obsessed megalomaniac, I'll be sure to consult you for tips. I would have thought you'd have gotten the revenge out of your system by now. How many times do you have to kill the guy to be happy?"

"Well, I've got nothing better to do," Adam deadpanned. "And then it occurred to me—there's always the possibility that in some other universe, Hiro is happy. It even bothers me that he _exists_ in other universes. I said annihilate, and I _meant _annihilate—I'm a man of my word."

"And how, exactly, do you intend to get into those other universes? I don't think the other—what is it, twenty-four?—Hiros are just going to fall into your lap like this one."

"Well, I know Peter's your be-all end-all for this whole scenario, and to me he's mostly just bait," Adam mused, "but he can serve other purposes as well." He walked to the paintings, running a finger down the last one in the sequence—a picture of Hiro Nakamura standing in the doorway, framed against the light from the windows, the rescuing knight coming for his friend—and Adam standing behind him, swinging a sword at his neck. "We'll have him for awhile," he said, fingers sliding to the small clock painted in the corner of the piece, hands just past three o'clock. "I'm sure I can find a way to persuade him to help me."

"As long as you're careful with him," Sylar said easily. "I need at least his head intact—I still need to take his abilities, that's kind of the point."

"If he's can't tell me any way to work the teleporting thing," Adam continued, turning back to him, "I'm sure _you_ could use your new abilities to help out your good friend Adam."

"I'm pretty sure I'll have better things to do," Sylar disagreed, "like, oh, I don't know—killing _our_ Peter Petrelli."

"Well," Adam said, checking his watch, "here's your chance to practice. He should be here _annny _second now."

Right on cue, the air twisted for a split second, convulsing, the slightest warning of arrival. The men got on their marks—Adam pulled a gun out of his belt and took aim at the movement, and Sylar stepped back, picking up the baseball bat that was leaning against the wall. Peter appeared, winking into existence with no more warning than the blur of the air. He stood blinking, alarm starting to show on his features as he saw Adam, then Sylar just as the man swung a bat at his head, and then there was no more time to react because the black shut everything else out, and he collapsed, crumpling to the floor.

Sylar stared down at him, bat hanging loosely in his grip, as if he simply couldn't believe the sight of Peter Petrelli, unconscious at his feet after so many years of standing over him. Adam was not impressed by the moment—he got to work, immediately pulling Peter up and pushing him into the aluminum chair already prepared for him, quickly cuffing his hands to the back of the chair. Sylar broke out of his self-awe and came to help, sliding a needle into Peter's left arm and turning on the drip, ensuring that his old unbeatable enemy would stay beatable, sedated. Adam finished with the cuffs as Sylar stood back up, admiring their quick, clean handiwork.

"Well," Sylar said. "That was easy."


	33. Tau: Villains

AUTHOR'S NOTE: …Okay, so it's a three-parter. Sorry :). I realized I was going on ten pages here, and I figured I should probably break and give you guys what I promised you. I swear, I'll wrap it up in the next chapter, but this universe is just so much fun to write! The villains are my favorite part of "Heroes". Such good stuff.

---

When Hiro got back home, the Loft was empty—Peter hadn't gotten back yet, and he had no idea where Audrey had gone. She was inclined to visit old crime scenes and shooting ranges when she was angry, and he would rather have her take out her frustrations on a paper target than on him. He wasn't in the mood be alone, though—that last universe had disoriented him, screwed with his perceptions in a way he wasn't comfortable with. Visiting other worlds was all well and good, as long as they stayed within a few steps of his own reality, within the boundaries of believability. Sigma universe hadn't played by the rules, and he didn't like it, didn't like being expected and understood—didn't like being ordinary, one of thousands with the same common power. He didn't like saying no to a person he wanted to help—didn't like being trapped into so many different things.

He pulled on the cuff still around his right wrist, sliding his finger around its edge. _How am I supposed to get this damn thing off? _he wondered. _It's cold and it chafes and I don't like it. I want it off. _He sighed and opened the freezer, trying to ignore its rub as he pulled frozen pancakes from the shelf. _I guess I'll just get Peter to get it off somehow__—whenever the hell he gets home. _He wasn't particularly worried about Peter—they'd never been terribly precise about time, in this whole string theory project. They'd always at least tried to match their time in other universes to the time elapsed in this one, just to keep things balanced, but they were never exact. So Peter wasn't home yet—that just meant that he'd taken a little more time in his universe than Hiro. Hiro was willing to eat pancakes and wait.

He wasn't worried. At least, he wasn't worried until something suddenly burst into his mind like exploding shrapnel, a painful backlash of emotion, fear and alarm strong enough to drive him to his knees. The pancakes fell to the floor, plate shattering as his hands went to his head, trying to contain the explosive slam of the panic. It was fading now, but he could still feel the terror, the sudden surprise, and it stung as it receded.

"What the hell?" he said to himself as he got back to his feet. He wasn't a mind-reader. He couldn't feel emotions that weren't his—unless someone else had put them into his head. "Peter?" he said aloud, wondering. "What have you gotten yourself into this time?"

---

_Oh God,_ Peter thought as he started to regain consciousness, eyesight clearing to show him Sylar and Adam Monroe. _What have I gotten myself into this time? _

"Morning, Peter," Adam said. "You're a dead man."

"I can see how that might be true," Peter said carefully, shaking his head. It wouldn't clear—his thoughts wouldn't clear, they were fuzzy and frayed at the edges.

"Hi," Sylar said, with that smile that Peter remembered, the unapologetic predator smile. "I don't know if you know who I am."

"Sylar," Peter said muzzily, trying to get his eyes to focus.

"Good," Sylar said, sounding pleased. "At least you'll know who killed you."

Peter tried to move his arms, but they were attached to the back of his chair somehow, hands pinned behind him. Moving his head to the side, he saw a needle in the crook of his arm, tube leading an IV bag filled with clear liquid. "I'm guessing that's not anesthesia."

"No," Adam said matter-of-factly. "That's a tranquilizer. It won't knock you out, but it will essentially paralyze you, freeze your nervous system up a little—stop you from using any of your abilities."

"Don't get us wrong, we really are going to kill you," Sylar said helpfully. "We're just not going to kill you until we can get your friend Hiro in the deal, too. He should be along in a few hours."

"How did you know…?"

"Oh, is this the part where the villain explains his master plan to the helpless hero?" Sylar asked, sounding amused. "Adam had better take this one, it's really his plan. Besides, everything sounds better in a British accent."

"It's really very simple," Adam explained. "No, that's a lie—it's quite complicated, but I'm sure you'll be able to keep up. You see, my friend Sylar painted some of his clever future-predicting pictures, only with a twist. I let him in on the secret of all these wonderful alternate universes, and asked him if he could paint them, too. Turns out he can."

"Took me a couple of tries," Sylar said. "It's an interesting sort of mental shift you have to make, but once you get the hang of it…" He nodded toward the paintings hanging on the wall.

Peter immediately picked out the relevant one, the painting of him tied to the chair, as he was right that moment. "You see," Adam told him, smiling, "we knew you were coming."

Peter dropped his head to his chest, not wanting to meet the ice-burn blue of his eyes—they made his head hurt, and he had enough to deal with. Thoughts were having trouble getting through to his brain, but panic was coming through pretty strongly—this was really it this time. Rho universe was fading by the second, replaced increasingly by the future of a sudden, violent death. He'd always felt that they were too reckless with these universes, too unprepared, coming in blindly with no idea of what could be waiting for them. Well, he'd certainly learned his lesson. "Why don't you just kill me?" he asked, melodramatic but also honestly curious. Here he was, all packaged up and ready for killing, but they hadn't taken the plunge, seemed happy just to stare at him with self-satisfaction.

"We just have to wait for Hiro first," Sylar told him without compunction, perfectly willing to explain. "Adam here has this whole revenge kick he's got to satisfy. He'll come after you—he's your friend, you people _do _that kind of thing."

Peter had to admit that Hiro probably _would_ come charging blindly after him—except that Hiro didn't know where he was. Hiro didn't even know he was in trouble, didn't know how to get to him if he had known. Surely there was no way for the fourth painting to come true.

"In fact," Adam was saying, putting his hands on the chair's armrests and leaning closer, "I was thinking maybe you could help me with some questions that I have. This whole…teleportation thing. It can't be too complicated, right? I'm thinking there might be some way to reverse-engineer it. Tell me how you do it—is it just thoughts, or are there actions involved, muscles, what? What does it feel like?"

Even drugs couldn't dull Peter's stubbornness; he knew from the instant Adam leaned in that this was going to end badly. There was no way he was going to tell Adam anything. It really wasn't in his nature, no matter how much pain that meant for his future. He used to be that guy—now he just wasn't. It was a simple fact of change, a burn-up byproduct of the bomb—and these men were out of luck. They could tear things out of his head, probably would, he couldn't stop them—but they couldn't make him give them anything willingly. That was the kind of thing, the kind of last straw, that he was inclined to hold onto so tightly it became a death-grip.

He looked up into Adam's eyes, ignoring the fact that his thoughts were like cooking molasses and his neck felt like spaghetti. "No thanks," he said.

Adam's smile went tighter, freezing solid, and he stared Peter down, letting him know that he wasn't going to make things easy. "Sylar," he said, not breaking eye contact. "Hand me the nail gun."

---

Hiro felt frantic.

He knew something was wrong. That blast of emotion spelled "crisis" in foot-high neon letters. He knew it was Peter—he'd never communicated world-to-world with him before, didn't even _use_ mind-abilities that often, but the fear had felt like him, couldn't be anyone but him. He knew his friend was in trouble, and attached to that knowledge was a burning obligation to do something about it, now.

He didn't even bother picking the pancakes up off the floor—he shut his eyes and threw himself toward the feel of Peter's fear. It was like jumping into Class-Five rapids without a life jacket—it was stupid and impossible, the river grabbing onto his lack of destination and jerking him sideways, maybe taking him to Peter but maybe not. Things began to appear again before his eyes and it was clear he hadn't gotten anywhere with the desperately-aimless approach.

He was back in Delta universe—of course he was, he always ended up here when he wasn't thinking hard enough. _Eddy in the space time continuum, or whatever the hell they said._ It didn't matter. He didn't care. What mattered was that Peter was in trouble and he didn't know where, and it was very unlikely that he could do this alone. Yes, Peter was his friend and basically the one person who had been through all this with him, but that was only the first layer of it. This was not a one-person job. _Living_ was not a one-person job, not in their world, and Peter was his backup, the guy he exchanged looks with and quarreled with and bounced ideas off of, and he _needed_ to have that or else he'd go insane. Peter dying was just not an option.

"Damn it!" he swore loudly, trying to collect his thoughts, glaring angrily down at the concentration camp in the valley as if somehow it was to blame. "Damn it, damn it, damn it!"

_Okay, _he thought to himself, forcing himself to be calmer, convincing himself not to just throw himself out into space and time again and hope for the best. _Okay, what can I try here? What didn't I do? Okay. I went to Sigma universe, so that means Peter went to—Tau, right?_ _Okay then. We never go the same place twice, we just think the next Greek letter and it takes us __to a new universe. That must mean that somehow our teleportation abilities are responding to the way we're organizing the universes in our minds. So—so what? _"What the hell am I getting at here?" he yelled out loud, looking around for H or N, anyone who could help him understand what to do.

"So there's only six universes left," he continued aloud, when nobody appeared to solve his problems. "Chances are, I think 'Tau universe' and it'll take me to Peter—right?"

Still nobody there to tell him right or wrong—and this was a prime example of why he needed Peter. But it was the only idea he had, the only conclusion his fried-frantic brain could come up with. He closed his eyes again, firmly fixed the thoughts "Tau universe" and "Peter" in his head, and jumped again.

The airless split-second of the jump, and then his feet hit the ground again. He opened his eyes on an empty street, slickly wet and covered in trash, with deserted buildings everywhere and no one in sight. Swearing violently, he closed his eyes again—he was looking for Peter and there was no Peter, so obviously this wasn't it. He jumped again, and this time when he opened his eyes, he was surrounded by shelves and shelves of books, a library with a ceiling fifty feet high and huge glass windows. There _was _a person in this one, but it appeared to be _him_, a Hiro Nakamura in tortoiseshell glasses and a dark red smoking jacket. Definitely not Peter, and no sign of peril anywhere. _All right then, _he thought grimly to himself. _If I__ have to do this by__ process of elimination, then I__ will. _He thought "Peter" again, and jumped a third time.

Even before he opened his eyes on the third universe, he felt that something was wrong—his finely-tuned awareness of danger was screaming like a Spider-sense. The good news was, he saw Peter at once, and it was immediately apparent what the fear and panic had been all about. Peter was cuffed to a chair with an IV running into his arm, looking caught and helpless and, worst of all, sitting right next to Sylar. No time to deal with that, though—his paranoia was warning him to turn as he opened his eyes, catching sight of Adam Monroe swinging a sword at his neck.

He twisted his body away in time to almost get out of the way of the blade, feeling it slice down the side of his arm, barely breaking the skin. He backpedaled as fast as he could and got his own sword out of its sheath, circling warily away from the man who had attacked him, watching for the next swing. "What is your _deal?_" he shouted at Adam, annoyed and worried for Peter, looking so barely conscious and healing bruises too slowly for everything to be all right. "Every time I see you, you're trying to kill me! Do I owe you money, what? What is it?"

"I told you," Adam said. "I told you as long as I had breath, I would be coming for you. Don't you remember, Hiro? 'Everything you love, I will lay to waste.'"

"I don't remember anything, and you're out of your mind," Hiro replied. "But as far as vendettas go, I think I've got one now, too."

"Then come on," Adam said, circling around his side, looking for an opening. "You tried before and you failed—try to kill me, Hiro."

Hiro smiled. "I thought you'd never ask."


	34. Tau: Collateral

"Come on," Adam said, and his smile was the breaking point of a long wait, the desire for imminent brutality. "Try to kill me, Hiro."

Hiro smiled back, and his smile had more to do with Peter than himself—it said that he still didn't understand this man's vendetta but he would take it down with the man and be happy never knowing. "I thought you'd never ask."

He feinted to the left with his sword and then stabbed in with full violent intent—Adam flinched away and then engaged, and then they were connecting, clashing with the sound of a hammer on an anvil, purposeful destruction and the desire to slice their swords straight through the other's body and see them bleeding out on the floor. Adam didn't back off from Hiro's expert slashes, answered them with parries of his own that said he knew how to handle his sword and that he wasn't going to make it easy. They moved around each other, barely paying attention to where their feet were landing, all eyes on their swords and where they were going and how they were being blocked and where to slide through and stab.

Sylar watched for a moment—they looked fairly evenly matched, and in an era that didn't place much emphasis on swords and swordsmanship, that was fairly impressive in itself. He knew Adam's history, knew where he'd come from and consequently how he'd learned to slash and feint like that—but he wondered what Hiro's excuse was for being able to fight him off. He certainly hadn't had the four hundred years of experience that Adam had, and Sylar would have said that nothing could have matched the brimstone ferocity of Adam's long-held hate, but Hiro wasn't losing. In fact, the more he watched, the more he became convinced that Hiro was _winning_, and suddenly their plan didn't seem so cut-and-dry after all.

Adam stepped back quickly from a particularly quick slash of Hiro's sword, but Hiro saw him jump away and changed the direction of his sword mid-swing, opening a huge gash diagonally along Adam's chest, splitting the white fabric into a sudden blossom of red, bloodstains chewing up the edges of the torn shirt. Hiro pulled back, surprised at the unexpected hit and watching to see how badly Adam was hurt.

As it turned out, not badly at all. Adam looked up at him without the slightest bit of pain on his face, not even the recognition that he should be in pain, but instead a happy sort of condescension. And then Hiro remembered. He remembered right as the gash began to heal, folding together and disappearing, leaving nothing of the wound but the red on the shirt, blood staying to remind that there had been a wound where, in seconds, there would be nothing. "Oh yeah," Hiro said, trying to quickly reassess the situation. "Damn."

"Hey," Sylar said from behind them, sounding suddenly concerned. "You need help, Adam?"

"I really think it'll be more cathartic if I'm the one that does the killing," Adam said calmly. "Thanks all the same."

Sylar was worried—things were supposed to have been a lot easier than this. The paintings had made it look like a done deal, a simple execution and then victory. This was more complicated, and he was unsure how to feel about it. He didn't _like _Adam exactly, the man was like an aristocrat and a used car salesman, an uncomfortable mix of charisma and cool immorality. Sylar didn't like that he killed and didn't feel it, he didn't even like that he killed—he barely could stand it in himself, and the close proximity with this Armani Jack the Ripper was uncomfortable to his self-deception. He killed because he had to—an evolutionary imperative, an irresistible drive that only made everything better. This man killed, why? Because someone had stepped on his toes four hundred years ago. Because he had nothing better to do.

For all this dislike, though, he couldn't stand and watch Adam get his head lopped off by a sword. Adam was useful. Sylar had been wandering in impotent circles when Adam showed up for the first time, and now he had a straight line, a plan with a clear endgame. Adam had a wealth of Company information that he was only too happy to spill, names, lists, lies, anomalies. He'd given up some of that, but he was just as suspicious as Sylar, and the only way for Sylar to get what he wanted was to make sure Adam stayed alive. But Adam had said no thanks, no help please, and he would never forgive Sylar for interfering with his revenge. So Sylar got to sit and watch like a polite audience, reduced to babysitting Peter when he would have liked nothing more than to slice the man's head open.

_I wonder how much Adam would hate me if I killed him right now, before he's told us anything? _Sylar wondered, watching Hiro slide his sword around Adam's, nearly disarming him. _More or less than if I helped him win this fight? _

"All right," he said wearily. "Have your samurai showdown. Whatever. Just hurry it up, okay?"

As Sylar watched, Hiro tried the sliding trick again, this time managing to get his sword entangled far enough around Adam's to jerk it out of his hand, sending it clattering against the wall. Hiro took advantage of the single disarmed moment of surprise and drove in with his sword, stabbing straight toward Adam's head—and in an alarming split second, Sylar knew he knew how to kill Adam, where to stab, and it was suddenly a possibility that Adam might die. But Adam wasn't having any of that death idea—he'd lived too long, was clinging too hard to the life he'd sustained past all impossibility. As Hiro's sword stabbed toward him, his hand lashed out and grabbed the blade, pulling it out of Hiro's grip.

He dropped it the second he got it away from Hiro, and Sylar could see the white of his bone where the sword has sliced straight through his hand. Hiro dropped a moment of awareness, staring at the unexpected development of his sword on the ground, and Adam took that moment to forget his hand and tackle Hiro.

Adam hit him hard, and they both went over the stair railing, hitting the lower level hard enough to drive the breath out of both of them, rolling away and fighting to see who could force themselves to stand first. Hiro scrambled to his feet and thrust his hand through the railing, reaching for his sword just a few feet away on the landing, needing the advantage. Just as his fingers brushed the hilt, he felt a sudden sharp pain in his leg, like a bullet but longer, driving through the muscle of his legs and staying there—then another identical pain, and as he turned he saw two six-inch nails sticking out of his calf and Adam with a nail gun in his hand.

His leg buckled, refusing to hold him, and he went to the floor with a throated cry of pain. Adam dropped the nail gun and bolted for the railing, stretching his arm out for the sword Hiro had been trying to reach. "Hey Peter," Hiro said, trying to stand. "I don't suppose this is the part where you miraculously escape your bonds and _come help me?_" Adam's hand closed around the sword and he pulled it through the railing, turning and coming for Hiro. "No? All right then."

He did the only thing he could think of and the thing that was instinctual—he closed his eyes and jumped. Not leaving Peter, though it was a tempting option with two industrial nails in his leg, but a few feet to Peter's side, hoping for the element of surprise to be enough to stop Sylar noticing that he'd just appeared by their captive and had his hand on the IV, was yanking it out of Peter's arm and sending fluid spraying across the wood floor.

"Adam!" Sylar yelled in vague accusation as the plan suddenly went even more wrong, Hiro Nakamura appearing to detach the only thing that was keeping Peter beatable. He had a sudden, violent surge of anger at the thought of losing Peter, who he had worked so hard to catch and who would probably never give him the opportunity again, and he lashed out with the most visceral of his abilities, sending Hiro flying across the room to hit the wall with sickening force, bending in the plaster walls and sliding to the floor in a crumpled heap.

Now it was all a matter of timing—Adam was sprinting toward Hiro on the other side of the room, sword in hand, and Sylar knew that it would take only seconds for Peter to recover. The paralyzing drug was effective but short-term, and as Sylar turned he saw Peter's hands melting through the cuffs like they were nothing, rising from the chair as his nervous system realized it was functional again.

Sylar braced himself for an attack, but Peter was staring over his shoulder at Hiro, Adam racing toward him with the sword coming up for a definite kill. He cleared his blurred thoughts as well as he could and threw himself over to Hiro, appearing by his friend's side just in time to take Adam's downswing on his shoulder and back, blood spurting from the sudden vicious cut and dying his shirt red from the collar down. Adam yelled something but Peter couldn't hear it, could only concentrate on jumping one more time with his back laid open to the spine, grabbing Hiro's arm and shoving them away with only the thought of _home _in his head.

He hit the floor of the Loft hard, rolling with the fall and coming to a stop, flat on his back in their kitchen with plate shards and pancakes under him. He turned his head and even that hurt, the vicious gash healing slowly enough to sting as he double-checked Hiro lying on the floor next to him, semi-conscious and bleeding bright enough to see it through his black clothing.

"Hiro!" he said, getting to his hands and knees to check his friend's pulse, slapping his cheek lightly to wake him, to see if he could be woken. "Hey, Hiro!"

Hiro's eyes came open to slits, barely conscious and only with an effort. "That was bad," he mumbled.

"Yeah," Peter said, relieved to see his eyes open. "That was bad, Hiro. I'm going to get you to a hospital or something, looks like you've broken a few ribs."

"Yeah, hospital," Hiro said, and Peter began to fear concussion—Hiro _hated _hospitals, and would have protested the risk with yells and exclamation marks if he were able. "Hey Peter," he said suddenly, eyes coming open again. "I think we left my sword."


	35. Alpha: Echo

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Happy holidays to all of you! Hope you did have a good Christmas and will have a good New Year's. Kiss someone when the ball drops! ;) ;)

---

Audrey postponed going back to the Loft as long as she could. She'd gone on a long walk after Hiro and Peter had left—shot lots of things, blown off a lot of steam—walked through the city where things were broken enough to make her feel better in comparison. It hadn't taken her long to get over her anger; she wasn't an unreasonable person, as a rule, generally very levelheaded and pragmatic. Once she'd had a chance to vent a little, she'd gone back over the whole situation and realized something: she'd been very silly.

She went over and over her argument with Hiro, and she could only come to one conclusion—she'd gotten angry at him for being happy. It sounded silly when she thought of it like that, but there it was. She stormed in on him making pancakes and yelled at him for it, yelled at him for smiling and for trying to save the world. As much as she hated to admit it, she was very clearly in the wrong here.

So she couldn't go home—not until she was ready to apologize to him. The thing about realizing her mistakes was that she was now obligated to make up for them, and she wasn't quite yet able to admit that she'd been wrong. Admitting it to herself was one thing—admitting it to him was about two words and a thousand times harder. She wandered around for another few hours on the pretense of checking in with the Resistance. It was an even more scattered and laughable rebellion these days, now that Cici's Bar had been raided, which had been the only place they'd ever been able to gather and agree on anything, even if it was only Manhattans and Screwdrivers. She'd found a few people still around—Sparrow Redhouse and Hana Gitelman, Micah Sanders—but they were all just waiting, guns under their pillows—watching to see if anything else could be done and whether anyone had the guts to do it. Nothing was happening anywhere; a dead city bleeding smog, buildings still coming down every day despite the assurances that things were getting better. Things were not getting better.

It was almost sunset when she finally headed home, her shadow disappearing behind her into the receding light. Her pride was firmly collared now, and she was ready to kiss and make up. It always took some time, but she could always do it. She didn't hold grudges, couldn't sustain them—it took a lot of energy, and she didn't have energy to spare. Besides, she sort of needed Hiro.

When she walked into the Loft, at first she thought it was empty. This was not unusual; by now, she was used to coming home to empty rooms and unnerving silence. Before she'd taken three steps, though, she knew her first assumption was wrong—she heard a gasp of pain and then Peter's voice saying, "Sorry. Sorry, sorry, we have to get you sitting up."

Then Hiro's voice, swearing, saying, "Watch it!"

It was the voice he used when he was hurt—he didn't use it very often, but she recognized it by its torn-out admitted weakness, and she ran down the stairs, nearly tripping over herself to get to him. He was on the floor of the kitchen, half-propped up by Peter, Hiro's blood getting all over his shirt and hands. _Oh God, that's a lot of blood_, she thought, standing in the entryway, remembering all the things she'd said this morning. _This is one of those lame Chicken Soup for the Soul moments, _she thought, her mind taut and hysterical. _He's going to die and the last thing I'll have said to him is that he's a failure. This is so _stupid!

It was that thought that kicked her back into motion, sent her running to Hiro and dropping to her knees beside him, helping Peter prop him up. "I love you," she said urgently, words running over each other in their haste to get out of her mouth.

Peter gave her a strange look, and Hiro barely responded, eyes half-lidded and closing further. It didn't matter; the Chicken Soup moment had passed. "Baby, what happened?" she said, speaking to him even though he was fast becoming unconscious. He didn't speak, and her eyes snapped up to Peter, accusing. "What happened? Is he all right? Tell me what happened!"

"We had a little trouble in Tau universe," Peter snapped at her, obviously thinking he had better things to do with his time than explain to her—like save Hiro's life. "Listen, we have to get him to a hospital, help me get him up."

"A _hospital?_Peter, you can't be serious!"

"Why would I not be serious? A hospital is where you take injured people!" He gestured wildly to Hiro. "This is an injured person! Do the math, Audrey!"

"In case you've forgotten," Audrey shot back, sliding a supportive arm around Hiro's shoulders, "you're both wanted fugitives! Do you honestly think we can just walk in there and ask for help? They'll be on you in an instant!"

"You honestly think we can afford not to? He's got a concussion, Audrey, and at least two broken ribs, and that cut on his arm is practically hemorrhaging, and—"

"What cut on his arm?" Audrey said suddenly.

Startled out of his rant, Peter followed her stare down to Hiro's arm. He distinctly remembered seeing Adam's sword slice down his bicep, feeling the blood from the wound running down his arm just seconds ago—there _had _been a cut there, he was one hundred percent sure. Now there just—wasn't.

"What the—" he started, sliding his fingers over the smooth skin of Hiro's arm. "Audrey, there was a cut there." With the instinctual touch of a former nurse, he ran his hand over Hiro's chest, checking for the breaks where they had been a moment ago, uneven bumps that spoke of trauma. There was nothing—no broken ribs that he could tell. "What the hell?"

As he spoke, Hiro's eyes suddenly came open and his body jerked, trying to sit up. They let him, taking their arms away as he sat straight up and stared down at himself, surprised. "It doesn't hurt anymore," he said slowly. "Peter—"

"Don't freaking ask me," Peter said, just as confused. "You healed somehow, Hiro—everything just _healed_. Unless you've suddenly turned empath, I really don't have a clue."

"I thought so," Hiro said, pressing a hand gently against his chest, checking for the sharp, stabbing pain that had been there a moment ago. "I _felt _it, sort of, when I was unconscious. It was like something hooking into me and pulling me up, like somebody dragging me above water." He turned to look at Peter, suddenly intent. "I've felt it before, Peter."

"What are you talking about?" Peter said, confused beyond all reason. "How could you possibly have felt it before? You can't heal!"

"Yeah, but I can _be _ healed," Hiro said insistently. "Come on, Peter, don't tell me you've forgotten Zeta universe?"

"Zeta universe," Peter repeated. "Healing. What? You mean the one with that weird X-Men school?"

"That's exactly the one I mean," Hiro said. "The one with Nathan's boys."

"Riiight," Peter said, finally catching on. "The little one—Monty. He healed you, didn't he?"

"Will someone _please _explain what's going on?" Audrey said crossly, annoyed at being locked out of their reminiscing.

"In a minute, sweetheart," Hiro said. "Yes, he healed me, and it felt _exactly _like what just happened."

"Hiro, Monty isn't here," Peter explained carefully, as if still suspecting concussion.

"No," Hiro said, "but you are."

"Oh!" Peter exclaimed. "Right! But I didn't—I mean, I wasn't even thinking about him. I wasn't even thinking about healing you or anything, I was going to take you to a _hospital_."

"I don't know," Hiro said, standing slowly, making sure everything was still working. "It's sometimes weird with the new abilities, right? I mean, you never did quite learn to control mind-reading. Sometimes it just comes out of you—like a punch."

"Well, I'm definitely going to work on getting _this_one controlled," Peter said, looking at his hands, trying to remember how he'd done it. "I mean—healing? Seems like a good one to have around." He glanced up, suddenly shifty-eyed. "I will need test subjects…"

"Don't even think about it," Audrey said, backing away quickly.

"_No_," Hiro agreed. "I just _got _healed, I don't need to be sliced up again. Speaking of," he said, frowning as he glanced at the floor. "Where's my sword, Peter?"

"What, you don't remember?" Peter said, not much wanting to explain to him that he'd left his precious Kensei blade with two evil villains.

He didn't have to. Suddenly, there was a short knock from their doorway, and then their door was swinging open, someone walking in. They were all turned in an instant, Audrey with her gun in hand and Hiro grabbing for a sword that wasn't there—but it was only Sparrow Redhouse, gorgeously regal in a red sheath dress and jeans, bags slung over her shoulder and an expectant look on her face.

"Sparrow," Peter said blankly. "Um, what a nice surprise. Do you need something?"

"No," she said serenely. "But I think you should know that I'll be staying here for awhile."

"Gee, thanks for letting me know," Peter responded, confused and annoyed. "Anything else we can do for you?"

"Hana's on her way up with the rest of the bags," Sparrow said, dropping hers to the floor. "We won't be here long. Parkman's tracked us—almost caught us, too. He's got some way of finding us, probably picked up some records from Cici's or something. We just need somewhere safe to stay until we can figure out what to do."

"If you're looking for safe, I don't know what we can do for you," Hiro remarked. "This place has already been raided once, I don't know if it's—"

"It's fine," Audrey cut him off. "Of course it's fine, Sparrow, stay as long as you like."

"Thanks, Audrey," Hana Gitelman said as she came through the door, loaded with bags that she dropped beside Sparrow's. "It'll just be for a little while, we really appreciate this."

"It's no problem," Audrey said breezily, walking over to take two bags. "I'm glad to have you, actually. I've been trying to formulate some kind of plan of action, and it will really help to have you two to bounce ideas off of. We can make this a temporary base, hopefully come up with some ideas."

"Perfect," Hana said. "Maybe we can set up a schematic on the counter? It seems big enough—if we move the pancakes, of course, and the scissors and all that paper—"

Peter shot Hiro a look, and saw that he was shooting one back—a moment of total nonverbal understanding as the three women made plans around them. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Yeah," Hiro said. "Let's get out of here."


	36. UpsilonPhi

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sorry. I thought my holiday break was going to be super-relaxing and filled with free time, but…it wasn't. To make a long story short, my best friend broke up with her longtime boyfriend in order to date _his_ best friend, and said ex-boyfriend rebounded pretty hard and consequently spent a great deal of energy trying to hook up with _me_. It was a huge mess—I'm so glad I'm home. But hey, you don't want to hear my life story :). Let's move on to more interesting people: the fictional ones!

---

Hiro and Peter slid out of their apartment like cat burglars escaping the scene of the crime, making a quick retreat before they could get roped into building a scale model of New York City out of Legos. Outside of the apartment, they didn't have much to worry about—they were in SoHo. Nobody lived in Soho anymore, not really. Only the people who had really good reasons to, like them—people who would put up with the three-walled buildings and the power shortages. There was no one out here to sneak from.

Once they got out on the street, it was a slightly different story. There were actual people out here, real, live people on the sidewalks and in the yards. There weren't _many_ people, due to the disgusting sleet-snow sheeting from the sky—again, only who had to be. This close to Ground Zero, life was all about necessity, and sometimes necessity meant letting freezing rain get under your collar and slide down your neck. For Hiro and Peter, it was definitely necessity. Audrey was sometimes too much for them all on her own, and the unholy triumvirate of Audrey, Hana, and Sparrow was more than they could handle. It was a G.I. Jane sleepover of epic proportions; they would return when the estrogen levels had run down a little.

"Jeez," Peter said, sloshing through a curbside pile of sleet.

"Yeah," Hiro said, knowing exactly what was contained in his friend's single syllable. It was the secret language of boys talking about girls, and they both knew what was meant.

They walked; they passed the dying flower garden of Mrs. Gutierrez, and Mrs. Gutierrez herself, on her hands and knees trying to cover her petunias in time to save them from the viscous, slushy rain. She waved as they walked past; Hiro waved back but Peter didn't, his eyes on his shoes where the water was seeping in at the laces.

"Have you noticed that it's getting more dangerous?" he asked Hiro.

Hiro flipped his collar up against the diagonal drive of the sleet. "What—existing? We're wanted terrorists, Peter, we can only be so careful."

"No," Peter said, jumping over a puddle. "I mean, sure, we could get arrested or whatever, but I think we've seen that this is not the worst that's out there." He swept his hand out to encompass everything: the slush, the petunias, the asymmetrical New York skyline with whole chunks cut out and gray sky behind them.

"You mean the other universes."

"I mean the other universes," Peter confirmed. "They're getting super-dangerous all of the sudden, you know? It's like playing hide and seek on a minefield. I mean, we started out with what? Muffins and incest? Now, every dimension we go into, it seems like everyone wants us dead."

"Believe me, I know," Hiro said. "You're not the one who keeps getting shot."

"Oh, I get shot all the time," Peter said glibly. "Doesn't stick. What I'm saying is, we're gonna freaking die."

"Pessimist," Hiro said, and walked faster. He didn't want to hear about implications and complications—five universes and they were _done._ There was no room for roadblocks in his plans. "I mean, what are you saying? Are you saying we should just give up?"

Peter watched his shoes—watched carefully where he placed his feet, avoiding anything that looked gray or slushy. "Where are we going, anyway?" he asked mildly.

"Peter," Hiro said, suddenly concerned. "Is that what you're saying? You want to _give up_?"

"I mean, obviously we had to get out of that apartment," Peter continued, "but we're not really headed anywhere specific. Do we have a plan, or—"

"_Peter_," Hiro yelled, grabbing his friend's arm so that he stopped with a jerk, swung around to face him. "Answer the question!"

"No," Peter responded, eyes finally off the pavement. "No, I'm not saying we should give up. I just—have this newfound desire not to die."

Hiro let Peter's arm go and stepped away, considering. "Dying really wasn't ever in the plan. I'm pretty sure it still isn't."

"Well then, let's be smart about this," Peter said. "Let's think it through like we haven't bothered to this whole damn time. How can we make it so we don't get shot or sliced or kidnapped?"

"I was thinking awhile ago," Hiro mused, "mostly out of impatience, but I was thinking that we spend too long in each universe. I mean, remember in the beginning, how you were always chickening out and ditching universes?"

"I was not—" Peter started.

"I was thinking that might be a better idea," Hiro continued over the top of his protesting. "Just to stay in the universe for a little bit and not just randomly chat up all these potential psychos and killers. Find some way to figure it out quick and then get the hell out, you know?"

"In that Claire-as-a-stripper universe," Peter said, wincing at the memory, "I grabbed a newspaper and bailed, and that worked out fine. We got everything we needed from the paper."

"Okay, there we go," Hiro said. "New game plan. Get in, get a newspaper or something that'll let us know what's up, and get out. We can puzzle everything out in the—er, relative safety of our own universe."

"That's good," Peter said. "I bet we can do two, three universes at a time—we won't have to be coming back to stitch ourselves back together or anything. I bet I can do two dimensions in an hour, tops."

"If that's true," Hiro said, "we can have all of this over with in one, two days. We can be done with this whole thing." He said it with a tone of astonishment, as if he'd never _really _expected to see the finish line—as if he'd expected to just keep running until his lungs collapsed and his heart burst open, never getting any closer. That was the kind of unfairness he'd come to expect—success was a new one.

"Well, damn," Peter said, slapping Hiro on the shoulder. "What are we standing around here for? I'll race you, Hiro—two universes and meet me back at the Loft. Bet I beat you by half an hour."

"You're on," Hiro grinned, and they closed their eyes at the same time, throwing themselves outward—

When Peter opened his eyes again, he almost thought he hadn't moved at all. At first glance it looked the same—the echo-empty streetline, the hollow stale silhouette of a city. But the familiarity was only superficial, and on a closer look, things began to seem very different. There were very few people where he'd been—there was _nobody_ here, literally nobody for miles on either side of the level, stretching line of the road. It was definitely New York, but there was the oddest feeling about it—like an invalid. Sick and dying but not dead. The emptiness was painful like an unhealed wound, like it was recent and not at all right. There was a slight wind blowing trash and paper down the sidewalks, and Peter felt one piece of paper suddenly pushed up against his foot, trapped by the wind.

He picked it up, and read: EVACUATION NOTICE, JUNE 14 2008, MANDATED EVACUATION ORDER, PLEASE USE THE FOLLOWING EVACUATION ROUTES TO LEAVE THE CITY IMMEDIATELY. Capital screaming words about emergency and out-of-nowhere devastation, and below the caps-locked headlines there was smaller print, something about a virus and a lot of numbers, casualties, quarantines.

"Well," Peter said to nobody, to the lack of people anywhere around. "That works."

He folded the paper and put it in his pocket, very ready to close the door on this horror-future. As he prepared to jump, though, there was movement down the street, a sudden silhouette where there had been no one. He turned to see who it was—and it was him. Another Peter Petrelli standing a few hundred feet away, abruptly appeared from nowhere and looking just as confused as he'd been himself. But he wasn't alone—there was someone standing next to him, sheltering behind him, and it took him a second but he recognized her. It was Caitlin.

"Aw, no, come on!" he said loudly, and the other Peter turned quickly to him, startled, possibly too confused and too far away to recognize his double. "Really? You're with _her_?"

"Hey!" the other Peter said. "Who are you? What is this place, how did we—"

"Sorry, got to go," Peter said, backing away before he could rift the space-time continuum somehow. "But think about it, man—you can do better."

He closed his eyes and teleported away, careful to concentrate on going to a new universe instead of back home. It was surprisingly easy—_home_ wasn't a terribly compelling thought at the moment, what with it's nasty sleetstorms and female invasions. Instead of returning back to the boxy, cement-blocked Loft, he seemed to be in a boxy, cinderblocked new room so white it hurt his eyes. There was very little in the room—no windows and a single heavy door, almost cell-like in its sparseness. The only person in the room was him and—another him.

"Hey there," he said to Phi-Peter, who was plastered back against the wall, staring at him like he wasn't sure whether or not to scream. "Hi. Don't freak out."

"No," Phi-Peter was saying, low and fast, almost inaudible. "No no no no no. I'm hallucinating."

"No, you're not, actually," Peter explained patiently, a veteran at this by now. "I'm real, I'm here, I'm just from—"

Phi-Peter wasn't listening. "They said this would happen, they said I might still hallucinate, but they said I was getting _better_, I'm taking the medicine, I'm _getting better_."

"Ahhh," Peter said, lightbulb over his head. "This is a mental hospital." A double take. "Why the hell are you in a mental hospital?"

Phi-Peter gave him a patronizing look, as if he were a particularly slow child. "Because that's where people go when they're out-of-their-head crazy. You should know that, you're _me_."

Peter glanced around at the locked room, keeping the twitchy and obviously unstable Phi-Peter in the corner of his eye. The newspaper idea wasn't going to work as well here—he'd just have to go the old-fashioned route and get out as soon as possible. "Calm down," he said with a careful smile. "I'm just a hallucination, right? I can't hurt you. Just tell me why you're in here, okay?"

Phi-Peter glared at him again. "Are you just the manifestation of the really stupid part of me, or what? I'm in here because I freakin' think I can fly."

"Oh," Peter said, frowning. "_Oh._" He remembered that part of his life—he didn't particularly _like _to remember it, because Nathan had been a real jerk just then, and he didn't like to remember the parts where Nathan had been a jerk. His brother had several times threatened to put him in a mental institution, and he could easily imagine a universe where Nathan had followed through on the threat. The fact that he didn't even _know _he could fly, didn't know he could do any of it—that was a little more surprising, but again, believable.

"Nathan put you in here, right?" he asked, just to make sure.

"Yeah," Phi-Peter said, flicking his gaze up so that Peter could see his eyes—a little glazed, pupils dilated.

"They must have you on so many damn drugs," Peter said, mostly to himself. _That would explain the lack of abilities. Guy can't even _think _straight. _

"Stops me from trying to fly out a window," Phi-Peter snorted, unbothered by the pity in Peter's voice. "Makes things easier."

"Yeah, I'm sure it does," Peter said, sick of this universe already. It was leaving a bad taste in his mouth, making him pull back from touching it. _At least no one trying to kill me_, he thought optimistically, then_, …yet. _

That was it—he was out of here. "Well, nice to meet you," he said briskly to Phi-Peter.

"Yeah, you too," Phi-Peter said warily. He wasn't surprised when the other Peter disappeared into thin air—he'd had some experience with hallucinations, and they tended to do things like that. He just turned around and put his forehead on the wall, trying not to think, to do anything.

He heard the sound of the door opening behind him, but he didn't turn. There was only ever one person it could be.

"Hello, Peter," came the warm, overly helpful voice. "How are we doing today?"

"Not so good, Doc," he said, words going into the wall in front of him. "We're hallucinating again."


	37. Chi

Hiro felt the chill of the place and knew something was wrong. Wind blowing against him and the smell of dirt and metal.

Sure enough, he was not in any kind of new Chi universe. He was back in Delta—the plateau and the camp in the valley, H and N sitting on the edge with binoculars pressed to their eyes. As they turned to glance back at him, unsurprised, he sighed, kicking at the turf. "This is really getting annoying," he informed them.

"Yeah," N said, mildly apologetic. "It's an eddy in the—"

"An eddy in the space-time continuum," Hiro interrupted. "Yeah, I get it, I remember. It's still annoying."

He closed his eyes and threw himself again, teleporting through the gray-matter betweenspace. _Wrong. Wrong again. _His annoyance skyrocketed into full-blown anger as he opened his eyes on Delta yet again.

"Damn it!" swore loudly. "Damn it, this is getting ridiculous!"

H and N were finally paying more attention to him than to their binoculars, turning around to stare at him as if they found him a mildly interesting sort of puzzle. "I agree," H said with disdain. "It's very distracting, you popping in and out of here all the time."

"Oh, I am _so _sorry," Hiro snapped. "Is the disastrous malfunctioning of my ability and possible warping of the entire universe _bothering_ you?"

"Yes, it is," H said coolly. "Go away."

Hiro considered getting into it with this condescending, serious still-life of a man, but he really had nothing to argue—he _wanted_to go away, they could both agree on that. So he closed his eyes and tried again.

Success. Even before he opened his eyes, he knew—the vague death-smell was gone, replaced by the warm, muzzy scent of sandalwood. The sound of classical music: Mozart's _Eine Klein Natchmusik. _He recognized it from when he used to be the kid whose father listened to classical music. When he opened his eyes there were other familiar things, all his senses telling him he was back where he'd come from. Fact: he was in the house of someone rich. Fact: that someone was his father. He recognized the room—it was his father's library, with the mile-high ceiling and the bay window, all class and old books. That was the thing that had changed, actually—there were _more_ books than he remembered, shelves stacked on top of shelves like they never meant to end.

He dragged himself bodily out of half-pleasant nostalgia and got to business. _Newspaper_, he thought to himself, scanning the room for some news source he could snatch. He couldn't see any papers on the sleek mahogany tabletops, but there were _books_, hundreds and hundreds of books. _There's got to be _something, he thought, moving toward the bookshelves, _a history, an almanac, even a freaking _yearbook_ would work. _He began pulling books out of the shelf at random, with a latent hysteria brought on by the possibility that his father might walk in any moment. Sun Zhu's _Art of War, _not helpful. _Collected Haikus of Basho, _good but not helpful. Now here was something interesting—a shelf full of comic books, plastic-covered and neatly filed. The Kaito Nakamura_he'd _known would never have allowed it, not in _his _library.

Behind him, he heard the door open, and he froze against the bookshelf, but it wasn't his father walking into the room. It was him—Hiro Nakamura in a smoking jacket and square glasses, hair in a sleek ponytail and face in a mask of surprise.

Hiro thought of any number of things to say, hundreds of explanations for being in this house, for bending time and coming face-to-face with himself. He didn't have to use any of them—the other Hiro spoke first.

He stared at Hiro with the look of a man whose mind has been irreversibly blown, frozen halfway into the room with his hand still on the doorknob, looking as if he might not ever move again. "Whoa," he said.

---

"Let me get this straight," Chi-Hiro said, straightening his glasses. "You just—_think_ about another dimension, and you're able to travel there? Like, when you want to go home, you just think about your Loft and you're just—there?"

"Yes," Hiro confirmed. "It's not complicated, it's just that it occur to people and, let's face it—who else can teleport?" He spoke slowly, carefully—it had been awhile since he'd had a conversation in Japanese.

"Whoa," Chi-Hiro said, leaning forward on the couch, eyes lit up with discovery and geek excitement. "_Whoa._ And you said you've mapped out almost all twenty-six of them? You know what all of them are, how to get to them? That's incredible!"

"Thanks," Hiro said modestly. Now that he thought about it, it _was _pretty incredible, and it was nice to get feedback from someone who could actually understand; he was glad the reaction was admiration and not concern for the universe. He had three dimensions left to go, and at this point, he didn't _care_ about the space-time continuum—soon things would be straight and whole, coalesced into one perfect dimension. He would fix everything. "So, tell me about this world. I know this as my father's house—how did it end up being yours?"

"He died two years ago," Chi-Hiro said soberly. "He left the house to me—Kimiko already has her own stainless-steel castle in downtown Tokyo, she certainly didn't need it."

"So, is she the CEO of Yamagato Industries, or are you?" Hiro asked curiously—he'd always wondered how that would have worked out.

"Oh, she is," Chi-Hiro said breezily. "I'm the head of the scientific and experimental divisions. I never wanted it—I don't know how you are in _your _universe, but I'm very mild-mannered, not ambitious."

Hiro raised an eyebrow at the wording, but didn't ask. "I noticed your collection of comic books over there," he said, nodding to the shelves. "Very impressive."

"Thank you," Chi-Hiro said proudly, standing and walking over to the books, running his hand across the edges of the comics. "But that's not the best of it." He smiled suddenly, beckoning Hiro to as he strode to the piano in the corner of the room. "Want to see something cool?"

"Yeah, sure," Hiro said, interest piqued, glancing over the piano for anything that could be classified as 'cool'.

Still grinning, Chi-Hiro bent over the piano and played a series of chords. As he finished the last one, there was a sudden creaking noise and, as Hiro watched, one of the bookshelves shuddered and then—popped open, the shelf swinging outward like a door.

"Oh my God," Hiro said, gaping. "It's a secret room. You have a secret room."

"Not just a secret room," Chi-Hiro said gleefully, sliding through the entrance to the other side of the bookshelf. Hiro followed him through, and saw—there was no other word for it—"A secret laboratory."

In the room behind the bookshelf, there were tables full of tubes and beakers, stacks of books, swords hanging one wall, video surveillance on the other, a police radio in the corner. Hiro had never seen anything like it outside of the pages of his old comic books, and all he could do was stare, stunned. "_God_," he said, unmoving. "It's like a freaking Batcave! This is incredible!"

"It's nice, isn't it?" Chi-Hiro said modestly, pulling the bookshelf-door shut. "It took a long time to make—I had to be discreet, you know?"

"No, seriously," Hiro said. "This is incredible. I _always _wanted to be some kind of caped crusader, back when—I _always_ wanted to be a comic-book superhero."

"Really?" Chi-Hiro said from behind him. "That's funny. I always wanted to be a comic-book super_villain_."

Hiro barely had time to react to the statement, to think _that's a weird thing to say, _before he felt something slam against the back of his head, shattering his vision to instant black. He crumpled to the floor, unconscious, and Chi-Hiro dropped the to the floor beside him.

"See ya, Hiro," he smirked, filled with the adrenalin of a new and truly evil Master Plan. "Thanks for the idea."

He closed his eyes and concentrated, filling his mind with Hiro's descriptions—an artist's loft in SoHo, a man named Peter Petrelli and a woman named Audrey Hanson, a crisscrossed string map. New universe—Alpha universe. All he had to do was concentrate.

He disappeared and was gone, leaving Hiro lying unconscious on the floor of the room behind the bookshelf.

---

The first thing Peter did when he got home was check for Hiro. He'd been quick—he was sure he'd beaten his friend home. He didn't see him anywhere in the Loft, but just to be sure, he yelled, "Hiro! Hey, Hiro, are you here?"

To his disappointment, Hiro walked out of the other room, buttoning up a black shirt, fixing his cuffs. "Oh," Peter said. "Damn. You beat me. Did you just _change?_"

"Yeah," Hiro said shortly. "Got something on my shirt."

Peter looked at him for a minute, trying to pinpoint something—he wasn't sure what. Hiro looked _different_ somehow, but he couldn't think of how. Same round face, same black ponytail, same borderline-depressive black clothes. Nothing was different. He was being silly. "How did you do two universes so fast?" he demanded. "I can't believe you beat me!"

"I only did one," Hiro explained. "Like I said, I got something on my shirt—I wanted to come home."

"Ha!" Peter said. "So I _did_ win!"

"Sure, Peter," Hiro said, wandering over to the map in the main room. "You win." He walked up until he was close enough to touch the strings, sliding his fingers down the connected lines. "We've got what, twenty-one universes mapped?" he asked casually. "Interesting."

There it was again—the vague feeling that something was _different._ Still no justification for it, just an annoying prickle. "Hiro, are you okay?" he asked, just to make sure.

"I'm fine," Hiro said, grinning suddenly, his fingers still wrapped around the string. "It's just—interesting."

---

Hiro woke up with a headache like a hurricane, threatening to take the top of his head straight off like a flimsy house roof. _Hangover? No, I remember—_the room behind the bookshelf, Chi-Hiro saying something vaguely threatening about supervillains, then a sharp pain in his head and blackness. It was obvious what had happened here. A Hiro growing up in the same circumstances of him, with the same influences and obsession with comic books, but with one slight course deviation—instead of being lured by the world of superheroes, he had instead idolized their enemies, the villains, with their grand-scale plans and capes and dramatic laughter. He'd gone the other direction, and he'd taken in to a dangerous extreme.

_And now he's loose in twenty-six worlds, _Hiro thought with horror, struggling to his feet. Good _one, Hiro, really good. Way to give him exactly the information he needed to actually become a threat. _He rushed to the bookshelf-wall, checking for a handle, a keyhole, any way to get out. _It's probably a secret lever disguised as a bust of Mozart_, he thought ironically, carefully checking every inch of the wall. Then he stopped—and swore.

"What the hell am I doing?" he yelled out loud. "I can teleport! What the hell?"

Quickly, he closed his eyes and thought of his home universe, throwing himself as forcefully as possible toward it—he had to get there before Chi-Hiro screwed things up too badly, found a way to make an Ultimate Annihilation Machine or any of the other random acts of destruction supervillains were prone to.

He felt the ground under his feet, and there was a smell of dirt and metal. He opened his eyes just to be sure, and there was H and N on the edge of the plateau, just as he'd left them. "Damn it!" he yelled. "Damn it, damn it, damn it!"

"Keep it down, would you?" H said dryly, not even bothering to turn around.

"Damn it!" Hiro screamed one last time, and teleported again, Alpha universe firmly in mind. The rush of the jump, the airless time-frozen teleportation—and he opened his eyes on Delta universe.

He didn't say anything this time, just brought his hands up to his head and rubbed his eyes, trying to focus himself, trying to keep himself from exploding all to bits like shrapnel, snapping and losing it entirely when he so badly needed it together, needed to have control of his ability like he'd never needed it before.

He closed his eyes and threw himself, putting everything he could behind the jump, _shoving _himself as hard as he could.

He didn't even move. The ground stayed beneath his feet, the world unwilling to let go of him, catching him in its eddy like spider's-web-flypaper. Stuck.

He turned slowly to face H and N, head back in his hands like he was trying to hold everything in. "This," he told them calmly, "is a problem.


	38. Alpha: Shrapnel

AUTHOR'S NOTE: 300 reviews. Three. Hundred. Reviews. Guys, I cannot even express how much I love you. Not only did I just break my personal record, it's…three hundred reviews! That's a really freaking lot of reviews. Love. Love all the way to the moon and back. I'm going to be smiling like an idiot for _days_.

Also—remember when I gave you that universe-outline a few chapters back? Well, that was _sort _ of helpful, but thanks to Tigger101, I now have a much better idea. I'm going to post the universe outline on my profile, so that y'all can look at it whenever you need to. I know _I _use it ALL the freaking time, can't write a page without it, so it stands to reason you guys might be getting a little confused, too. Anyway, thanks again for the reviews, and if there's anything else I can do to help with coherency, let me know!

---

Chi-Hiro slid his fingers along the length of the Iota timeline, following it where it connected with the other strings. This string had caught his eye at once, with its bright colors and its glossy magazine pictures of upscale pristine living rooms. As far as he could tell, this dimension had heroes, actual fly-off-and-save-the-day superheroes who were lionized and idolized by the entire world, loved and uncontested. _Seems like they've had it pretty easy,_ he thought to himself, smiling. _Seems like they might need a challenge. _It appealed to him, the idea of squaring off against actual superheroes—a real comic-book showdown, not just the subterfuge and terrorism he'd been dealing in for so long. Yes, this would be the first universe he visited.

He glanced over the rest of the map, the web of interconnected worlds, and he was happier than he'd been since the day he'd killed his father. _Should I destroy them all? _he wondered. _Should I destroy them, or should I just _use_ them? _He had time to think about it, to consider all his options. That was, unless—_where is the other Hiro? _he wondered with a sudden sharp concern. _Why hasn't he come after me yet? _Obviously, something was working in his favor—he just didn't know what, and that made him uneasy. _Maybe I should make some kind of trap for him, _he mused. _Like in episode 2014 of the X-Men show, when Morph uses his powers to—_

His plotting was interrupted by Peter, who didn't seem to notice the quickly-concealed avarice in his eyes. "Hey, man," he said. "Are you going to map your timeline, or what?"

"Yeah," Chi-Hiro said as casually as he could. _And to think I once said learning English would never do me any good_, he thought smugly, watching Peter Petrelli believe him completely, believe exactly what he was seeing. "Absolutely. Where's the string?"

"Jeez, I don't know," Peter retorted. He was in a bad mood; he still felt a little thrown, a little off-track. Something was wrong—he just didn't know what. "You had it last, _you _find it."

Chi-Hiro had a sudden urge to stab Peter Petrelli, a bullfight red flash at the tone of the man's voice. He didn't _like_ this Peter Petrelli, he didn't know him in his world and didn't like him in this one. It would be easy to do—his sword was right in the other room, and Peter certainly wouldn't be expecting to be stabbed by his best friend. But he had to hang onto stability in this universe, at least long enough to get the rest of the information he needed—what each of these strings meant, which universes were dangerous, which were ripe for a grand villain-style destruction.

So he smiled, even though it felt weird and it wasn't what he wanted, not when he would much rather have taken off Peter's head and taken this universe for himself. "Sure," he said. "Sure. I'll find it."

---

Peter went into the other room to get away from Hiro. This wasn't an incredibly unusual occurrence—Hiro had been his friend for years, but that didn't mean Peter couldn't hate him sometimes. The unusual part was the reason. Usually, he had to get away from Hiro because of some trivial, stuck-in-a-confined-space-with-this-guy-for-too-long reason, like that Hiro was popping his knuckles or complaining about interrupted meditation. This time, he'd left the room because Hiro was seriously weirding him out.

He wasn't _acting_ like Hiro—maybe some sort of very exhausted Hiro, or an angry Hiro, but his friend had no reason to be either. Standing in the middle of the string-map, hands all over it like it was a cheap date. Looking at him like he'd never seen him before. It was all just _strange_, even for Hiro.

He took a deep breath, inhale-exhale, and walked to the window, trying to separate paranoia from instinct from fact. He glanced out into the alley behind the Loft, eyes running over the bottleglass and asphalt and then back into the room, glancing over the dresser and the thing leaning against it, which was long and black and straight and—

His eyes screeched to a halt, snagged on the realization of what he was looking at. He crossed the room in three quick steps and snatched it up, and sure enough, it was exactly as he remembered—leather-bound and weathered, Japanese characters up the side.

He heard Hiro come into the room behind him, and he turned, still surprised by what he was holding. "Hiro," he said. "It's your _sword." _He held it out to Hiro as if he expected him to explain instantly, to tell him how and when this new twist had come into play.

"Yes, Peter," Hiro said slowly, taking the sword from his hands. "It's my sword…"

"But you _lost_ it," Peter said in exasperation. "We left it back in Tau universe! How the hell did it get back here?" He walked back over to the dresser, staring at the spot where the sword had been leaning, plain as day, unhidden and inexplicable.

"Well, you know these alternate dimensions," Hiro said with a strange tone. "Almost _anything _can slip through, if it's determined enough."

Peter froze, stopped dead by the sudden click-together of all his suspicions and observations. He knew what was going on here. He knew what was happening. "You're not—" he accused, turning.

Chi-Hiro stabbed him through the chest.

Peter stared down at the blade in his chest like he couldn't believe it, feeling it all the way inside of him and out his back, blood coming up his throat to choke him. Chi-Hiro wasn't waiting for him to get used to the idea—he pulled the blade out of Peter and stabbed him again, then again and again, shredding organs, punching through his lungs so that all the air went out of them like a popped balloon and he couldn't breathe couldn't stand and he went to the floor, blood pumping out of him and spreading down his shirt and into the carpet, pouring, pooling.

Chi-Hiro stared down and him, sword dripping Peter's blood back down onto his shoulders and neck. "Great," he said. _"Great. _Look what you made me do. Now I have to—"

He threw his hands in the air and bent down to the shaking, choking Peter—he put his hands on him and closed his eyes.

A suck of air and then they were at the Brooklyn Bridge, standing by the rails over the river, Chi-Hiro supporting Peter by two fistfuls of his shirt. He glanced down at Peter and there was somehow less red, less bleeding—but he didn't have time to think about it, not with the cars going by and the beginnings of panic. He heaved Peter over the side and let him drop, watching him fall until he hit the East river and disappeared instantly, swallowed.

Chi-Hiro stayed for a moment, watching—making sure the moment was important. Murder wasn't a new thing for him, but he always tried to make it stick—the taking of a life was something special, something for the record books. Something to remember. "Sorry," he said to Peter, as he backed away from the railing and disappeared.

---

Peter was pretty sure this was the closest he'd ever come to dying without something sticking out of the back of his head. He felt the sword go through him and he knew he'd be okay, it wasn't his brain, it would heal and he would be fine, but the fake Hiro just kept _stabbing_, slicing up things that were important like his heart and lungs, and his mind was telling him he was going to die.

Then, when he hit the water, he almost believed it. He wasn't healing fast enough, his body had more holes than string cheese and the river was getting into all of them, pouring in, and even if his lungs had been healed yet he couldn't have taken a breath. There wasn't time—he wasn't healing fast enough—he was drowning without drowning, swallowing water into a body that refused to die.

_All right, _he decided. _That's enough of _that. He ignored the wounds screaming at him and he started to kick—didn't even know which way was up but at least he was _moving_, and that seemed to help. His vision was completely black and red—he'd never thought he would find a way to push his body too hard but he was being proven wrong as his muscles locked, his veins screamed as his heart collapsed and rehealed again. It was the stabbing and the drowning at the same time, and he couldn't handle both, couldn't heal fast enough to make it okay.

His head broke water. He got out into the air and sucked it into his destroyed lungs, not caring when they screamed because it was _air _and it meant he was alive—maybe. Probably. He could feel himself healing faster but his vision was still starbursts and his head was spinning, and he was just swimming aimlessly, losing traction—his head went under the water again and he swallowed water. He could see the shore of the river, the streetlights and carlights, but he wasn't getting any closer, wasn't hardly moving. _Come _on he screamed at himself, and tried another tactic. He pulled his arms into his chest and let himself sink—he closed his eyes and concentrated.

It felt like a head-on collision but it worked—he could feel it the instant his body teleported out of the river, the pressure releasing as he hit asphalt and rolled. There was a loud, drawn-out New York honk, and he opened his eyes to see that he'd landed himself in the middle of the street, an SUV coming at him with brakes slammed, fishtailing out of his way as he curled into himself, trying to avoid being hit. The tires missed him by inches as the car spun out into the opposite lane, hitting another car and driving it into the rail. Peter managed to get his hand over his head as the sound of cars crashing filled his ears, skidding and screaming—from somewhere on his left side, broken glass showered him, pelting his back and shoulders as his vision pulsed black—he slid sideways into unconsciousness and was gone.

---

"Oliver!" his wife screamed, trying to unbuckle her seatbelt. "Oliver, get back in the car! It's not _safe_!"

"I think we might have hit that guy!" he yelled back to her, threading his way carefully through the mess of the twelve-car pileup, holding his hurt wrist so that it wouldn't get jarred. "I don't know what he was doing in the middle of the road—I think we might have hit him! I want to see if he's okay!"

As he reached the center of the wreck, he saw some of the other drivers getting out of their cars, shaking their heads, assessing the damage to themselves or their cars, moving closer to see what had caused it all. Oliver bent to the man on the pavement, rolling him onto his back as another driver came up behind him, asking, "Is he all right?"

"Yeah, he's just fine," Oliver said, puzzled. The man was covered in blood, _soaked _in it, really—but he didn't seem to have any injuries. He ran his hand over the unbroken skin wondering—"What the _hell _is going on here? I mean—does he look familiar to you?"

"Wait a minute," the other man said, backing away. "Wait a minute, I know that guy. That's one of them terrorist freaks—I seen him on the news. He's one of them freaks."

"What?" Oliver said, jumping up. Now that it had been said, he recognized the man—he was a reporter, he had these people's pictures going across his desk all day, and he _did_ recognize this man. "No, this is bad. Do you know who this is?"

"No," the man said apprehensively, backing away even further.

"Get out your phone," Oliver said. "Call Homeland Security. Tell them we've got an emergency on 14th." He turned back to look at the man on the pavement—and backed away, too, just to be safe. "Tell them Peter Petrelli is here."


	39. Alpha: Vincit Qui Se Vincit

Things were getting pretty crowded in Delta universe.

A few minutes after Hiro showed up in Delta, another Hiro appeared—a similar black-clad, serious Hiro, but who looked rather more like a samurai than Alpha-Hiro, more leather, longer ponytail, deeper scowl.

"What the—" the new Hiro said, looking around as if he expected attack.

"It's an eddy in the space-time continuum," N said, sounding as if he was getting just a little tired of explaining.

Before anyone could respond, though, there was another Hiro, suddenly appearing on the plateau a few feet away. This Hiro was a few years older and sleeker-looking, with a close-cut haircut and a blazer, but just as confused. "Hey!" the third Hiro yelled. "Where am I? This is _not _where I meant to go! Where's my daughter?"

"Okay," Alpha-Hiro said loudly. "This is going to get really confusing _really _fast, so let's just stop a minute and sort this out. You two," he said, pointing to H and N, "are Hiro One and Hiro Two. I am Hiro Three. You are Hiro Four and Hiro Five," he said to the newcomers. One and Two—explain this to them before their heads explode."

There was a small pop behind them, and yet another Hiro appeared. "Right," Alpha-Hiro said. "You can be Hiro Six. Hi. Nice to meet you."

---

"So we're stuck," Hiro Four said flatly, looking as if he was inclined to start chopping up people with his sword at any minute.

"Yeah, essentially," Alpha-Hiro shrugged. He was feeling just as pissed off as any of them, but he was trying to keep his head—someone had to do it, and none of the other Hiros looked like they were up to anything but hysteria. He'd been here before, he knew the ropes, and he even thought he might know how to fix it.

"Well, what are we waiting for?" Hiro Six said, standing. "Let's get the hell out of here!"

"Great," Hiro Four said sarcastically. "Thanks so much for the idea. How, exactly, do you propose we do that?"

"I've been thinking," Hiro One said solemnly. "I think there might be a way to work together on this. Perhaps if you combine your powers of teleportation—"

"Like, try to boost each other's abilities?" Five said, turning to the nearest Hiro—Hiro Four—and grabbing his arm. "I think it could work. Want to try it? I'm late for my daughter's piano recital."

"I'm late for saving the world," Alpha-Hiro said sardonically. "Sure, try it, see how far it gets you."

Four and Five closed their eyes, concentration clear on their faces as their brows furrowed, mouths turning down. Alpha-Hiro felt the slight suck of teleportation—Four and Five flickered like sci-fi hologram but stayed—didn't go anywhere. Four shoved away and walked in a tight, frustrated circle, palms pressed flat against his temples. "_God_!" he yelled. "Are we just going to be stuck here for the rest of our lives, is that it? Is that the plan?"

"Maybe we could try—" Two started.

"I'll tell you what we could try," Alpha-Hiro cut him off, tired of messing around when Chi-Hiro was loose in his universe, probably killing his friends and blowing up New York City. "We could try you getting the hell out of this universe."

Two wilted, looking guilty, but One shoved in front of him, staring Alpha-Hiro down. "Not an option. I need him here."

"You know what, H, I don't care how much you think you need him," Alpha-Hiro said, refusing to back down. "You are _breaking the universe. _Do you understand? I was willing to ignore this when it was just an annoying little side trip every other week, but—look at this!" He swept his arm out to the six Hiros, using them as visual aide for his verbal slap. "_We can't leave. _We can't leave! This has gone _way _beyond the point where I can ignore it."

"Listen, if you want to make this into a problem—" One said, stepping threateningly forward.

"Hey, wait," Two said from behind him, almost quietly enough to be missed. "He's right, H. We're screwing things up. I mean—what's the point of saving _this _world if I ruin all the other ones, right? He's right—I've got to go."

"Well, who says you even _can?_" One snapped. "Everyone else is stuck, I bet you can't even get _out._"

Alpha-Hiro smiled at him like ice, brittle and cool and very close to breaking. "I guess we'll find out," he said with a taut smile, "won't we?"

---

When Chi-Hiro got back to the Loft, he stood still for a moment, frowning to himself. It had been strangely difficult to teleport that time—something trying to pull him in. He'd never felt anything like it, and that was worrisome. He didn't, as a general rule, like things that he couldn't explain.

Then the map caught his eye, and he was smiling again. _Now _here's _something I can get behind, _he thought happily to himself. _Everything ordered, mapped, explained—this is good. __This is good. _Now that Peter Petrelli was gone, everything was perfect. He'd thought about going back to his own universe—he certainly had what he needed there, after years of setting up his secret lab—but he was pretty sure he was going to stay in this universe instead. It seemed like a good place to set up camp—the map was here, for one thing, and that was what was important. He had this loft, he had a city that would leave him alone, and it was nice—he liked it here.

The door opened, and his body snapped around at the noise, surprised, alarmed. Some blonde woman was standing in the doorway—he didn't recognize her—he'd never seen her before.

Audrey didn't notice anything wrong. She shut the door with her foot and dropped her bags on the counter, walking over to Chi-Hiro and sliding her arms around his waist. "Hey, baby," she said. She looked up at him and the expression on his face was strange, not something she'd seen before. "Hey, what's up? You're looking at me like you've never seen me before."

"No," he said, still sounding shellshocked, awkward. "No, I'm just—tired."

Audrey rubbed at the back of her neck—there was a sudden sharp pain, right at the top of her spine, out of nowhere. It felt funny, and wrong, and it _hurt_. "Look, if this is about Sparrow and Hana, you don't have to worry. They're out working on getting weapons smuggled to us, they won't be back for awhile."

"Right," Hiro said vaguely, pulling away. "Right, well…that's good."

"Okay," Audrey said. "I don't know what's going on with you tonight, but I don't care, because I'm going to need your help."

Chi-Hiro turned and looked at her, this loud blonde woman who had shown up in his loft and made things so much more complicated than he'd thought they were going to be. _Maybe I should just kill her, too, _he thought wistfully. "What do you need my help for?"

"Were you not listening? We're smuggling guns in, a _lot _of guns, and I can't figure out a way to get them safely across the city, so I need you to come teleport them."

_Maybe not._ The word "guns" and his interest was perked—he turned back toward her, considering the new situation that had just fallen in his lap. Guns were easier than swords—not as messy, and he knew how to handle them. If he was going to be living here, he was going to have to start stocking up on these kinds of things, and this would be an excellent place to start. _Maybe I'll—wait. At least for now. _

"Sure, honey," he said, plastering a smile on his face for the first time. "Sure, I can do that. Let's go."

---

Audrey and Chi-Hiro stood side-by-side on the dock of the New York Harbor, not touching, arms folded against the cold. Audrey looked at him again out of the corner of her eyes and flipped her collar up. "They'll be here in half an hour," she said, as stilted as if the air were freezing her words on the way out.

Hiro didn't respond, and her neck flared again, electric-shock pain shooting up into the back of her head, and there was a feeling as strong as if someone was shouting VERY BAD VERY BAD into her ear, and she _knew _something was wrong.

Years of cop experience and she knew what to do, didn't even think—she pulled her gun from her holster and turned on him, getting him in her sights in five seconds flat. "I don't know what's going on here, but I'm pretty sure it's _really _bad, so I'm going to need you to _not move._"

Chi-Hiro just looked at her for a few moments, part condescension, part relief. "Well, I don't know how you figured that one out," he said, "but thank _God. _I don't know if I could have forced another 'honey' out of my mouth. I mean—is he really dating you? Really? He must be pretty desperate."

"Shut up," Audrey said tersely. "I will blow your head off right now if you don't tell me what happened to Hiro, I swear I will."

"Really, you will?" Chi-Hiro said mockingly. "Really? _Really?_" And then suddenly, between one blink and another, he was closer, disappearing and reappearing right up next to her and grabbing her wrist, twisting the gun out of it and shoving her hard, sending her stumbling down the pier. "Really?" he repeated. "Because I don't think you want to _know _what happened to your boyfriend. You know what I think?" He disappeared again and this time he was behind her, grabbing her by the hair and dragging her head back. "I think you're going to die."

Audrey had other ideas. Her arm shot back and she grabbed the hand that held her hair, keeping a firm hold on it as she spun in his grip, aiming a solid kick at his knee as her cop instincts told her to. She missed—he saw the kick coming and pulled away, shoving her again and she fell to the deck, her head slamming back against the wood and she was out, blacked-out unconscious. "_Jeez,_" he said, looking at his wrist where her fingernails had scored half-moon cuts. "See, now you're _really_ dead."

"Oh, you think so?" said a voice from behind him, and he turned around to see Alpha-Hiro, looking tired and frustrated and _very _angry.

"Huh," Chi-Hiro said, turning away from the unconscious Audrey. "You know, I'd actually forgotten about you? You're not really _memorable_, if you know what I mean. You think you're a hero or whatever, but heroes and villains, man—we've got to make an _impression. _We've got to stand out, we've got to—"

"Oh, shut up," Hiro said, and tackled him.

They hit the deck beside Audrey and rolled straight into the harbor, hitting the water with arms still wrapped around each other, neither letting go as they sunk below the surface. Hiro didn't want to release his hold, wanted to drown the man but didn't want to drown himself and water was getting in his ears, his eyes, his mouth. He shut his eyes against the water and threw them, a short jump onto land where he could do more than commit kamikaze suicide. They landed on the pier again but not the same pier, he couldn't see Audrey and it made him worried, but he didn't have time to worry as Chi-Hiro pulled him up by the collar and threw him several feet into a nearby boat. He hit the side of the boat and grabbed onto its edge, pulling himself up, not willing to go back into the water where self-defense was so limited.

As he pulled himself over the side of the boat, Chi-Hiro jumped onto it and landed right beside him, standing over him, so he lashed out and scissored the man's legs from under him, sending him crashing to the deck while Hiro scrambled up, looking for a weapon, anything to give him an advantage on the ridiculously even ground of fighting _himself. _He spotted a half-empty bottle of wine on the sideboard and grabbed for it as he heard Chi-Hiro getting up, coming at him—he grabbed the neck of the bottle and flipped it into his hand, turning just as Hiro hit him and drove him into the side of the boat, the rail cutting into his back as he tried to keep his hold on the bottle, maneuvering his arm until it was out of the other man's grip. He swung his arm and smashed the bottle as hard as he could against the back of Chi-Hiro's head, sending champagne and bottleglass spattering to the deck as Chi-Hiro slid away from him, sprawling, out cold.

He stood over his unconscious alter-ego with the broken neck of the bottle still in his hand, wondering what he was supposed to do now. _Audrey,_ he remembered abruptly, turning back to where he remembered her last, but behind him there was the sudden sound of sirens. He turned, and there were lights coming toward him, flashing red and blue—he looked down at Chi-Hiro and he couldn't for the life of him think of what to do.

The sound of footsteps, and Audrey was running up the pier beside him, looking uninjured and in-control. "Come _on, _get down here," she yelled up at him. "I called Homeland Security, they'll be here any minute, come _down._"

Hiro obeyed without thinking, climbing off the boat, yelling back, "What about the other Hiro?"

"Don't worry about him!" Audrey asserted, grabbing his wrists and pulling him onto the pier. "That's why I called HS, Parkman will pick him up and think it's you, it'll be _perfect. _Come on, get us out of here!"

Happy to let her do the thinking after an exceptionally long and trouble-filled day, Hiro wrapped his arms around her, closed his eyes, and got them out of there.

---

Hiro wasn't sure where they were when he opened his eyes. _Out of here _wasn't a terribly specific location to shoot for—he'd made sure they were still in their universe, still in New York, but he hadn't bothered to fix a location in his mind before he'd jumped. He opened his eyes but didn't take his arms away from Audrey—after everything that had happened, he didn't feel ready to let her go just yet.

They were on a sidewalk somewhere downtown, standing by a glassfront store window with widescreen TVs packed into it, blaring the news. He was about to close his eyes and focus this time, actually get them home, but the picture on the screen was just intriguing enough to watch.

"…and we've just gotten word that Homeland Security has caught _another _terrorist, Hiro Nakamura, the mastermind behind the rash of raids in '09, third on Director Parkman's Most Wanted list for two years now." Hiro grinned at Audrey and hugged her tighter, getting ready to teleport again, this time _home_, where they could make hot chocolate and lay around for at least a few hours, watching Cary Grant movies and getting some _rest._ "This major victory comes right on the heels of the news from earlier," the anchorwoman continued, "when Homeland Security caught the dangerous terrorist Peter Petrelli."

Audrey and Hiro snapped around, staring at the screen as Peter's picture flashed across it, mouths open. "Did you know—" Audrey started.

"No! Did you?"

"No! No, I didn't know."

They lapsed into silence again, stunned by this new and horrible development in their already terrible day. "Right," Hiro said finally. "Well, that's a problem."


	40. Alpha: Bad Ideas

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Ach. Stupid muse.

---

When Sparrow Redhouse walked into the Loft, she was completely ready to be furious. She saw Audrey and Hiro sitting at the bar, talking quietly, holding hands, and she was even _more _furious, justified, ready to explode. "Audrey," she snapped, using her words like a whip, cutting between them. They jerked apart and turned, and Sparrow caught a glance of Hiro's expression—taut and drawn and whiter than usual, a disaster-face. She stopped dead in the middle of the kitchen floor, suddenly reevaluating, the top of her anger siphoning off. "What happened?" she asked more evenly, silently adding _This had better be good. _

"It's Peter," Audrey explained, slipping her hand back into Hiro's. "Homeland Security caught him."

"Oh," Sparrow said, disappointed that it _was _a good reason, and she had nowhere to vent her anger now, because after all things had gone pretty badly in the last hour and she could swear it was somebody's fault. "I assume that's why you _didn't bother to show up at the docks." _She let a little acid into her voice anyway—she had to do it, even if it wasn't fair.

"God," Audrey said, her face falling. "I forgot, Sparrow.'

"You—forgot?" Sparrow replied, nearly choking on the implausibility of the words. "_Really?" _

"Look, Peter isn't the only problem we've had to deal with in the last little while," Hiro cut in, smiling in a way that said she wasn't the only one who was on edge. "We had my evil, murderous alter-ego, too, and this is tricky, so try to keep up—the people in those universes we've been visiting? One of them followed me back, and then tried to kill everyone—and judging from the massive bloodstains in the carpet of the other room, who knows if he actually did. Audrey _was _at the dock, but unfortunately she was there with the other Hiro, who tried to kill her and nearly succeeded. Luckily, I showed up, and we had an epic battle that left me with a lot of really fun bruises. Any questions?"

"I didn't really understand that," Sparrow said frankly. "But whatever. It ended up all right—there were a bunch of police boats and sirens around the dock, so we figured _something_ had happened. We hung around for a bit, then just circled around and found this old boathouse to drop the guns in. They'll be safe until we need them. Probably."

"Good," Audrey said briskly. "I hope you're over the whole you-stood-me-up thing now, Sparrow, because I need your help."

"With what?" Sparrow asked, pursing her lips. She _wasn't _quite over being stood up, but she would help, of course, if it was important enough.

It was. "We've got a prison break to plan," Hiro said, smiling in a strange, wooden way.

Suddenly, there was a small _pop_, and another figure appeared in the middle of the room.

They stared. H stared back at them, Hiro's thousand-time acquaintance from Delta universe. "What the hell?" he demanded. "What have you done, Hiro?"

---

Peter seriously considered making a break for it the first time his cell door opened. He knew, of course, that he wouldn't make it, but that wasn't the issue. When he'd woken up in this square, depressing concrete cell, almost the first thing he'd noticed was the collar around his neck. It was slim and metal and part of it was sticking into his neck somehow, probably a needle—he could feel it, and he was nearly positive it wasn't there for decoration. He couldn't use any of his abilities, he'd established that right off the bat, but the collar didn't necessarily have anything to do with that. Noah Bennet had engineered power-dampening cells more than ten years ago, so it could just as easily be the walls themselves keeping his down. The collar was a wild card—he didn't know what it was, or whether it was designed to blow his head off.

So when the door opened and Matt Parkman walked in, he didn't move—sat still on his bed, arms propped on his knees, and watched him. "Hey," he said.

"Peter Petrelli," Parkman said, shaking his head as the cell door swing shut behind him. "Wow. This is such a good day."

"Really depends on where you're sitting," Peter responded. "So, do you want to tell me what's up with this collar? I've never seen it before."

"Oh, we don't use them very often," Parkman explained easily. "The cells do a great job of suppressing abilities by themselves, and our tests have shown that people who wear the collars for prolonged periods of time tend to start having psychological breakdowns. The thing is, we're really not that concerned about keeping you in one piece, so we're willing to risk it. Just in case."

"Just in case I burrow through ten feet of concrete with my bare hands?" Peter said sardonically. "Yeah, you're really going to have to watch out for that one."

Parkman just smiled. "This is your first time with us, isn't it, Mr. Petrelli? I guess I'd forgotten. Don't worry, you'll get used to the way things work here."

"And how," Peter said sardonically, staring at the ceiling, "do things work here?"

"I'm a busy man," Park man told him. "And while your capture has made my job significantly easier, I've still got a very full schedule. So when I come to see you, it will be because I need something from you. Here's how it will work: I will ask you questions. You will answer them."

Peter looked thoughtfully up at him for a moment, chewing his lip. "Yeah," he said eventually, in the tone of someone trying to soften a blow. "Not going to happen."

Matt didn't seem terribly bothered by his response. He shrugged and pulled the door open again, saying, "I guess we'll see," a self-assured parting shot as he walked out of the cell.

Peter watched the door swing shut, and the sound of the tumblers clicking shut was a sudden serious blow to his confidence. There wasn't really any smart remark he could make to the steel door that would make him feel better. He needed Parkman to bounce off, to condescend to. "Have a nice day!" he yelled at the door, just for good measure.

---

Almost the instant Matt Parkman left Peter Petrelli's cell, he was accosted by an agitated solider, who pounced on him and began talking in his ear so fast that Matt had to stop walking altogether and concentrate just to understand him.

"We just got a call from a jewelry store downtown," the man was saying urgently. "They say Hiro Nakamura is in their shop right now, robbing them. I told them we'd already caught him earlier but he said no, Nakamura was there, and I didn't believe him but then he linked us to the security camera footage and it's _him, _I swear to God, it couldn't be anyone but him, and we have to _go _or we won't get there in time."

"What?" Parkman yelled, narrowing his eyes against these new impossibilities. "That's not possible. I want to see this security footage, _now!" _

---

Hiro sat on the display counter, looking idly at the diamond necklace in his hand. It was pretty, he supposed. It had been a little while since he'd seen anything really pretty, so he didn't have much context compare it to. It had a thick silver chain with a pendant in the middle—silver and studded with diamonds, a crisscross figure with diamond drops hanging from it. It _was _pretty, he decided. He liked it. He was sure Audrey would like it.

_Come on,_ he scolded himself, _you're not going to steal it. That would be weird. You're not even really robbing this place. _He sighed and set the necklace down again, kicking his feet against the glass of the case as he waited patiently to get caught.

There were no sirens this time. His only warning was the slight crunch of glass underfoot as they moved in—the sudden flash of a laser sight on the wall in front of him. _Finally, _he thought to himself. _You're getting slow, Parkman. Ready, and…action._

---

Parkman stared at Hiro Nakamura for a long time, his arms crossed, the lines of his face making his confusion very clear. Hiro didn't speak—he would let Parkman be the one to break the silence, to ask to questions he knew were coming.

It didn't take long. "Explain this to me," he said, his voice low and flat, frustrated, unamused.

"What?" Hiro said helpfully. "You mean explain why there are two of me?"

A beat. "Yes," Parkman said. "Let's start with that."

"It was Peter Petrelli," Hiro told him. "He split me."

Parkman just looked at him for another couple of minutes, and then his hand went to his head. "What do you mean, he split you?"

"You know about how he absorbs powers, right?" Hiro began. "Of course you do. Well, we ran into this guy named Jamie Madrox, and that's what he could do—split people."

"Stop saying that!" Parkman snapped, annoyed. "What does it mean? What do you mean, _split_ people?"

"He takes one person," Hiro said slowly, patronizingly, "and he splits them into two people. He multiplies them." Parkman just stared at him, the same blank disbelief and shaking his head. Hiro felt his first stab of real concern—he knew this wasn't the most well-thought-out plan ever, and he'd been carrying it through so far on sheer bravado. The thing that was tricky, here, was that so much of it depended on Parkman; his ambition and power-mongering had never let them down before, and Hiro could only hope this wasn't going to be the first time. "Check it if you want to. We've got the same DNA and everything—we're the same person. Seriously, man, I wouldn't tell you if I didn't know it would screw with your head." He let a hint of mockery into his voice, a slight tilt to his head—he had to lead Parkman carefully here, get the information in but not be too helpful, too pat. He wished he knew how to play this—he wished he were a better liar.

"Can he do it again?" And with that question, the pressure suddenly released again—Hiro almost let out a sigh of relief. Parkman was biting. It was going to work.

"Jeez, I don't know," he said as casually as he could manage. "I'm sure he can."

"Right," Parkman said tersely, standing. "Don't get comfortable. I'll be back soon."

Hiro waited until he shut the cell door behind him, then let his muscles relax, head going back to the wall behind him. _This really is crazy, _he thought. _And stupid. Probably more stupid than crazy. Yeah, this is probably the stupidest thing I have ever done. _

He sat up again, staring into the wall as if he could see through it, find Peter wherever he was in this huge, convoluted compound. Matt Parkman notwithstanding, this would be the part most likely to go wrong. Peter didn't know what was going on. Peter wouldn't know what Hiro very much needed him to do. _Come on, Peter, _he thought at his friend. _You can do it. It's not that hard. I think you can do it. Don't let me down, here. _

He closed his eyes, put his head in his arms, and waited.

---

"So," was Parkman's first word as he blew into Peter's cell, startling him out of a doze. The man looked less smug but more excited, strangely alight. "Did you forget to tell me something?"

Peter sat up slowly, trying to assess Parkman's expression, to figure out what he'd done and whether it would help or hurt him. "Not that I know of," he said finally, going with honesty to be safe.

"I now have _two _Hiro Nakamuras in my custody," Parkman informed him. "_Two. _I've been informed you have something to do with that."

Peter rubbed the sleep from his eyes, buying a few seconds to think as things started to click slightly into place. Two Hiros, he could see that. Obviously the Hiro that had stabbed him had _not _been his friend, so he'd been assuming it was probably a Hiro from another dimension that had somehow gotten through to theirs. If that was true, than _their _Hiro certainly wouldn't have waited around for him to screw things up, so Peter could understand two Hiros in the same universe. The part he couldn't understand was what he had to do with it.

_Hiro's in custody, _he thought carefully. _That means something. He wouldn't let himself get taken, there's no way, he'd just stop time or teleport, they could never catch him. Something is going on here. _"Yeah," he said warily. "Yeah, I do."

"So you can really do it?" Parkman said, strangely eager, leaving Peter to panic at the open-ended question for a moment before following up with, "You can really—_split _people?"

It was like trying to play darts in the dark, and Peter had no idea if he was hitting the target. "Oh, absolutely," Peter hazarded. He was starting to think that this whole thing was maybe Hiro's fault, some kind of plan. That was reassuring, but it really didn't help much in the long run—he still didn't know what he was supposed to be doing. "I can do that."

Parkman's mind was whirring with this new information, plugging it into his formulas of what-does-this-mean-for-me and how-can-I-use-this. The most obvious application was military—one man split forever, turning a single person into thousands of soldiers? It wasn't a difficult leap to make. One thing was for sure—the President would _love _it, and that only meant good things for him. "Is Hiro the only one you can split?" he asked.

Suddenly, everything came together for Peter, and his head snapped up. _God, Hiro, _he thought, wondering, _that's really clever. I mean clever in the way that it's completely insane, but still—_"Yes," he said firmly.

---

Peter could feel every gun pointed at him, making his skin prickle, the hair on the back of his neck go up. He really didn't want to die here.

He stood across the complex from Hiro, trying to communicate sentences, whole paragraphs using only his eyes. _Did I do what you wanted? _he was asking. _I had no idea what I was doing, did I get it right? I don't understand what's going on, Hiro. I'm really just winging it. _

The other, impostor Hiro, he was mostly ignoring. He still remembered how it felt to have a sword through his chest, to be killed, and it was difficult not to think about doing some killing of his own, but there were more important things to consider.

For example, there was Matt Parkman and the dozens of soldiers he had surrounding them, all aiming at his head and completely ready to pull the trigger. It made him twitchy, to say the least. He was hard to kill but easy if you knew how, and it certainly looked like Parkman wasn't taking any chances.

"All right, Petrelli," Parkman said, holding his keys as if he still wasn't sure this was a good idea, didn't quite know what he was doing. "You remember what I told you. Don't try _anything, _and I mean anything. I will gun you down right here, I know how and I'll do it. I'll kill Nakamura, both damn parts of him. And you know what? I'll kill Claire, too. Just keep that in mind."

"You can't kill Claire," Peter couldn't help saying. "You don't know where she is."

"Yeah, well, I'm real good at research," Parkman said implacably. "Am I clear?"

"Crystal," Peter said automatically, staring at the keys. "You know, I think it would work way better if Hiro was free, too," he suggested, nodding at the collar around his friend's neck.

"Don't push your luck," Parkman said sardonically, and with a last disbelieving shake of his head, lifted the keys to Peter's neck. "Seriously, Petrelli, do not make me," he warned one last time as the collar unlocked, popping free. The soldiers leaned forward, alert and ready for any sign of rebellion, preparing to take him down at a second's notice.

Peter felt the needle pull free of his neck, everything unblocked again in an instant and he could _feel _it. He didn't hesitate—he closed his eyes and _shoved _out as hard as he could, a telekinetic push as strong or stronger than anything he'd ever managed before, throwing the circle of soldiers, Parkman, back into the walls, heads cracking against the cement and limbs snapping and people going down, blacking out, guns falling from their hands and bodies twisting in ways they shouldn't, hitting hard enough to crack bone and concrete. He kept just enough power pressing in to keep them against the walls and let the rest drop, grinning at Hiro.

"That's what you wanted, right?" he yelled as he crossed the room to where Parkman was pinned against the far wall, blood sliding down his face from his temple.

"Yeah, that'll about do it," Hiro yelled back. "Good to see you, man!"

"You too. I got a little worried when your evil twin over there showed up," he said, glancing back at Chi-Hiro, who was backing away and fiddling with his handcuffs, intent on escape. "This is a really stupid plan—you do know that, right?"

"Worked, didn't it?" Hiro called back. "Just for the record, that was about the coolest thing I've ever seen you do."

"Don't expect an encore anytime soon," Peter warned. "The abilities have been bottled up for awhile, is all. They needed to stretch their legs." He bent down to the half-conscious, bleeding Parkman, searching for the keys. "Wow, you're really stupid," he said cheerfully. "I cannot _believe _you fell for that. Not that I'm not grateful or anything, but _wow._"

He found the keys a few feet away as Parkman gritted his teeth, trying to push against the telekinesis and having very little luck. Peter looped the keyring over his wrist and crossed back to Hiro, smiling to himself. "Catch," he said, tossing the keys to Hiro, who caught them carefully in cuffed hands and twisted them around to the lock. "And where do you think _you're _going?" he said, addressing Chi-Hiro who, still cuffed, was trying to pick a path through the paralyzed soldiers to the only exit. With a precise little push of telekinesis, he pinned Chi-Hiro against the wall, remembering again how it felt to have a sword slice through his lungs.

"Peter, this is going to sound weird," Hiro said, working on his collar by now, "but we can't kill him."

Peter turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow. "You're right, that does sound weird. Care to elaborate?"

"He's messing things up," Hiro explained. "We've got to put him back where he belongs. That was one of the reasons for the whole 'one-person-split-into-two' gag—I needed him out here so we could bring him back to his universe. _Really,_" he said at the look on Peter's face. "Another Hiro showed up here this morning, things are warping. We're going to have another Delta on our hands if we're not careful."

"Whatever," Peter said, stalking over to Chi-Hiro. "Hi," he said. "You killed me. That—God, that pisses me off. But you're screwing up my universe, so I've got to be all Golden Rule and not kill you back. Consider yourself very lucky. However, I know that the instant we put you in your own world, you're going to come popping back here, so I am going to _leave_ this inhibitor collar on you. Understand? Great."

"You think that'll stop me?" Chi-Hiro growled, struggling against the telekinetic hold. "I shall return! You haven't seen the last of me!"

"Seriously, Hiro," Peter said laconically. "Where did you find this guy?"

"Chi universe. Think a house in Tokyo with a really big library," Hiro said helpfully. "You want to take him back?"

"I might as well," Peter sighed. "You go on home, you deserve it. Thanks for the rescue, man."

"Don't mention it," Hiro said. "Okay, we've got to time this just right—when I say three, let everyone go, and we'll both teleport. Ready?"

"See you back home," Peter said, taking hold of Chi-Hiro's arms.

"One—two—_three__!"_


	41. Psi

AUTHOR'S NOTE: First of all…sorry about last chapter. Sorry about the sloppiness, and the bad characterizations, and the plot holes you could drive a truck through. That was seriously some of the worst stuff I've ever written in my life. I don't know what was wrong with it—I kept writing and rewriting, trying to find something I was happy with, but every version was worst than the last. I finally just had to kind of let it go, get it off my chest and move on. Thanks for your tactful, constructive comments, and thanks for those of you who told me it was fine—I appreciate the encouragement, especially when I was so frustrated about it. Sorry to pawn such shoddy work off on you—I swear I'll do better.

---

Peter took about ten minutes to get out of the Homeland Security complex, to Chi universe, and back to the Loft. Hiro was very glad he took so long, because that meant his friend wasn't around to see Audrey attack him in a violent combination of relief, passion, and anger the instant he got home. She had been vehemently, vocally opposed to his rush-job half-plan, to the point where he'd eventually had to just leave, completely ditch her and Sparrow and their slow rationality in favor of his own out-of-control conscious rashness.

He wasn't usually like this. He was very calm and analytical, usually, he'd learned to be. The problem was, Peter had developed this irritating habit lately of getting himself into very big trouble, and that, Hiro couldn't quite be rational about. He didn't really have much in the way of connections; there was Audrey, of course, and then there was Pete—and that was it. Two people to be irrational about, out of seven billion. He thought it was a fair balance.

Still, it left him a little shaken, a little unnerved, a little more willing to go back inside his shell when he was done moving outside of it. When Audrey tackled him, hugging him hard enough to cut off his breath, he couldn't quite make himself hug her back. Luckily, she didn't seem to notice—the hug lasted only a few moments, and then she tore into him as only a girlfriend could, vicious and vulnerable.

Her yelling cut off when Peter appeared back into the room—she glared at Hiro for a few more seconds, then stalked into the other room. "Hey," Peter said, watching her go. "What's wrong with her?"

"Oh, she's just—annoyed," Hiro said vaguely. "How did it go?"

"I don't know how long he's going to stay put," Peter said, "but he's there for now, so I guess we win. Right, so," he said brightly, "ready to go?"

"Sorry," Hiro said dryly. "Where, exactly, are we going?"

Peter held up two fingers, grinning. "Two more universes, Hiro. We can have this done by dinner time."

"Are you kidding? We just pulled you out of a government prison, Peter."

"Yeah, and that sucked, which is all the more reason we should try to fix it," Peter argued. "Seriously, Hiro, I don't see why we should delay this. I can get it done in fifteen minutes, and then we can get down to fixing this thing. Okay?"

_I shouldn't, _Hiro thought, but it was only a throwaway thought—he was always far too easily convinced about things like this. "Okay," he said, smiling.

"Too bad these are our last universes," Peter commented. "I think we're really starting to get the hang of this."

"Yeah," Hiro said sardonically. "I sure will miss the thrilling heroics."

Peter smiled back at him, intoning, "What else are heroes for?"

---

Kimiko Nakamura heard him coming all the way down the hall—long step, long step, squeaky board—but she didn't bother to do anything about it. She stayed where she was, sitting on the hotel bed with her back to the door, carefully sharpening her sword in long, sparking strokes. She listened until she knew he was in the room. "Hello, Ando," she said without turning.

She heard him freeze, sigh in resignation, and shut the door behind him. "How did you know it was me?"

"Your legs are so long," she told him, "it makes you take very long steps, they're very unique. Do I really have to explain this?"

"No," he said quickly. "Of course not, no. I'm just glad you're happy to see me."

"I'm not happy to see you," she said bluntly. "Go away."

"This is the first time I've caught up to you in six months," he said stubbornly. "I'm not just going to go away."

She turned at last, lifting her sheath from the bedspread and sliding the sword carefully into it. "You're going to get yourself killed, Ando."

"So are you," he retorted. "I want you to come home, Kimiko."

"I'm curious what your definition of 'home' is," she said, "that would make you think I wanted to come back to it. Who's waiting for me, Ando? There's nobody left to want me to come back."

"I want you to come back," Ando said, completely unashamed.

She just looked at him—shook her head, and asked, "_Why?_" Immediately she wished she hadn't said it—it came out too raw, far too honest, pleading, wondering.

"Because I love you," he said simply, almost surprised. "Do you even have to ask? You've been gone two years, Kimiko, and what do you have to show for it? Bitterness and frustration? Come back to Japan, love, there are people who care about you—"

"All the people who care about me are dead," Kimiko snapped, standing, "and _I'm _trying to do something about it. Why do you have such a problem with that, Ando? If you were _really_ Hiro's friend as you pretended all those years, you would be right alongside me, hunting down his killer!" She stepped closer, getting right in his face, driving every word home. "I don't care if it takes another two years, I don't care if it takes the rest of my _life_, I'm going to find the man who killed my family and I am going to kill him. He took _everything_ from me, Ando—so don't you _dare _tell me I'm wasting my time."

She was very close now, so close that he could smell her, cigarettes and mint; so close he could have bent and kissed her—but he wasn't about to try that again. He'd learned his lesson the last time. But he couldn't just stand there and look at her pretty face twisting, lines getting harsher—he reached out and pulled her into a hug.

She tensed, shocked, and then pushed him away, shoving hard enough to send him stumbling back into the nightstand. "What are you doing?" she demanded, rubbing her arms as his touch had somehow infected her.

"I'm just—" Ando protested.

"I know what you _just," _she spat, narrowing her eyes, "and correct me if I'm wrong, but I told you none of that, ever. Can you just—leave? Please? I mean, don't you have a company to run?"

"Yes," Ando said. "A company that _you _should be running."

She actually grinned at that, slinging the sword over her shoulder. "Cheap shot, Ando. Listen, I'm really close, I think I've got him this time. I'll find him, I'll kill him…and this whole thing can just be over." She put a hand on his shoulder as she walked past him, headed out the door.

"You can't kill him!" Ando called after her, and she stopped dead in the doorway.

"Yes, I can," she said, turning around and walking back to him, looking almost eager but dead serious, ready to convince him. "I can kill him, Ando. I've been at this for so damn long—I've been watching and I've been asking questions, and I know how to do it." She looked up into his eyes, looking so intently like she was searching for something, demanding something. "I need you to believe I can do this."

"I need you to come home," he countered, taking her hands, even though he knew she would pull away, and she did.

The surprise was her smile—it wasn't a real, happiness-driven smile but it was a smile, hard-bitten self-destructive and everything he knew about her. "See you, Ando."

She turned again to walk out the door, but suddenly, there was someone standing in her way. He hadn't been there before, she could have sworn—he'd appeared out of thin air between one second and the next, abruptly existent and in her way. Her first instinct was to go for the sword, and her hand flew up to its hilt over her shoulder. Then she saw who it was, and all thoughts of attack or defense or anything at all flew out of her head, crystallizing into painful impossibility.

"_Hiro?_"

Hiro had never had this kind of reaction before—he saw his sister go white and pull back from him, gaping at him, eyes glittering—was she _crying?_ Peter had told him about universes like this, worlds where the sight of him was a bad, mean, painful thing, but he'd never encountered it—he didn't know what to do about it.

"Hey, it's okay," he said hurriedly. "It's okay. Let me explain."

Suddenly, Kimiko's mouth snapped shut, the tears disappeared from her eyes, and she came at him. He was still dealing with surprise when she hit, wrapping his mind around his sister being able to tackle him into the wall and pull a sword on him, holding it against his neck close enough that he could feel the edge against his skin.

"Hey!" he said, alarmed, trying not to move. "Hey, calm down. Can I please just have a chance to explain what I'm doing here?"

"This is a trick," she growled at him, actually _growled_, his sister who he'd never heard so much as raise her voice his entire life. "Did Adam send you?"

"Adam," he said, grabbing onto the name he recognized, and was really starting to hate. "He wants to kill me. Did he kill me?" No response from Kimiko. He hardly even recognized her—she had a long scar down her jawbone and her hair was shorter she was so different, so hard and lacquered and he had _no _idea how to deal with this person who was barely his sister."Ando," he tried instead, enlisting the help of his friend who was hovering in the background, looking worried. "Help me out here, I am _not _here to hurt you."

"Kimiko, maybe we should—" Ando tried.

"Shut up!" she yelled, and Hiro could see her fraying a little, unable to cope with him. "There's no way he's really here, Ando, he's _dead." _

"All right," he said, making a swift decision. Hoping she wasn't quite as twitchy as she seemed, he brought his hands up, grabbing her wrists and pulling the sword away, spinning himself away from the wall. "Please, do _not _try to kill me again. I'm from another universe, and I'm not your brother, and this is _not _a trick—I don't even really—_exist_, okay? Think of it that way if you want, you're probably not going to understand it. Just tell me what happened to you people and I'll go away."

Ando and Kimiko just looked at him, frozen, confused, wary, Kimiko with her sword half-raised and ready to attack him again. "Okay," he said, "okay. Let's try this: I'll ask you a question. Did Adam Monroe kill me?"

Kimiko looked away quickly, and Ando looked at her—Hiro could tell by the way he watched her, leaned toward her, that his friend was just as in love with Kimiko as he'd ever been—maybe more. "He killed everybody," Ando said tonelessly, still looking at Kimiko, watching her carefully for a reaction. "He killed all the Nakamuras, all your family, aunts, cousins, everything. He killed you last."

"What about Kimiko?" he asked, but even the sound of her name didn't get a reaction from his sister. Ando moved toward her and put his hands on her shoulders, but she didn't move—staring intently at the carpet as if it could somehow help her cope.

"He thought he killed her," Ando said. "He almost did. I found her." It sounded like _I saved her_, and Hiro knew there were a thousand more pages to this story, but he was watching the point of Kimiko's sword—_his _sword, he realized, the Kensei sword—move up and down, twitching with the motion of her wrist. He didn't want to be here for longer than he had to.

_Last question, _he promised himself. "Where are we?" he asked. He'd been looking around at the tasteless hotel room and the sweep of brown ground out the window, and he knew this was _not_ Japan. But then, what were they doing here?

"Texas," Ando answered.

Kimiko's head came up, quick and threatened, like a snake deciding whether to bite. "Adam's here and I'm going to kill him. I'm going to avenge you, if that's what you're interested in."

"I'm not a ghost," he told her firmly. "I'm going to go now, and I want you to just try to forget I was here, all right? I'm sorry for—for being here, I guess. I didn't mean to cause you pain."

Neither said anything—Ando looped his arm around Kimiko's shoulders and pulled her gently against him, protective. He felt bad, he really did—he'd brought up things that they didn't want to think about, opened books that had probably closed a long time ago, but he wasn't a therapist and didn't have the time to be. _Last universe,_ he told himself, justifying, and it worked, made him feel better. _We figure this out and this universe will be fixed anyway. _

He kept his justifications going in his head and tried not to look at Kimiko—he closed his eyes and jumped.

Ando felt Kimiko go limp when Hiro disappeared, all the tension going out of her muscles. She drew in her breath quickly, almost as if she was in pain, and Ando tightened his grip around her shoulders. She tensed again. "Ando," she said.

"What?"

"Get your hands off me."


	42. Omega

The most positive thing in this new universe, Peter thought, was that no one tried to kill him right away. _Wouldn't _that _be a trip at the finish line, _he thought ironically, _killed on the very last universe. I guess I'd better watch my step. _

He recognized this place. It wasn't anywhere he'd been in awhile, but he knew it—had spent too much time here not to recognize the bird cages and sculpted stone. It was the roof of the Deveaux building, and sure enough, Charles Deveaux was right across the roof, sitting in his wheelchair with his hands folded across his lap—just looking.

"Hello, Peter," he said.

"I'm not—" Peter explained halfheartedly, piecing together what he remembered of his old patient. "I'm not who you think, I'm from—"

"I know," Charles said. "You're not from around here."

"You—know?" Peter said, backing up a few steps. "How could you know?"

"I've been waiting for you," Charles explained calmly. "I have something I need to tell you."

"No, wait, _how do you know?" _Peter demanded. "You're freaking me out, I want an explanation."

Charles gave him a knowing smile. "My mind just works differently, Peter. I know things I need to know. I see the world differently—like a map of string, all overlaid, all connected. I see what's coming. I see what needs to be done." He spread his hands, matter-of-fact. "I see where the turning points are. Funny thing is, a lot of them have to do with you, Peter."

"That's great," Peter said warily. In all the universes he'd visited, his least favorites were the ones where they knew he was coming. Those ones, in his experience, were the ones where people tried to kill him. "Look, I need to know about this universe, all right? The timeline, things like that."

"There's only one thing you need to know from this universe, Peter," Charles told him firmly. "There's something I need to tell you, and you need to listen. It's your turning point, Peter."

"Mr. Deveaux," Peter said helplessly. "I don't know why you're suddenly this deep-voiced figure of wisdom, and I _really_ don't understand what you're saying. The last time you showed up in my life, I seem to remember you were not very helpful. Did that happen here? The dream sequence, right before the bomb?"

"Do you remember what I said to you?" Charles reminded him. "I told you came because you needed to. It's the same now, Peter—everything is snarled. The lines are tangled. Do you want to straighten them out, or not?"

"Really, Mr. Deveaux, I don't understand what you're saying," Peter said, exasperated. "Can we quit with the Philosophy 101?" He remembered respecting this man, feeling real affection for him—but he didn't quite know how anymore. All he felt was impatience, frustration.

"_Listen,_" Charles said with a little more urgency. "Is this how you're going to grow up? Pay attention! Show some respect." He glared at Peter for a moment, making sure he had the floor, then leaned forward. "Here's what I need you to know." A grave pause. "Save the cheerleader, save the world."

"What?" Peter said, dumbfounded. "_Seriously? _'Save the cheerleader, save the world?' You're a couple of years too late, I've heard that one before, and guess what? It didn't work! Jeez!"

"Listen," Charles said patiently. "Save the _cheerleaders, _save the _worlds. _More than one cheerleader. More than one world."

Stunned silence for a moment. "Oh," Peter said. "_Oh!"_

"Do you understand?"

"Yeah," Peter said, suddenly flustered, thunderstruck, falling over himself to get back to his world. "Yeah, I understand. Thank you! I have to go!"

"Godspeed," Charles told him, smiling. "And good luck, Peter."

---

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sorry so short. This one's just the segue to rest of the fic. I hope I made it clear enough what this new plot twist entails, but if you don't get it, just ask me, I'd be happy to explain it more heavy-handedly :) :). You guys are great! Thanks!


	43. Alpha: Turnaround

Hiro had never seen Peter so excited. Excited maybe wasn't the right word—agitated, maybe, crackling with dangerous energy. "What _is _it?" he demanded as Peter crossed the room, grabbing him by the arms.

"I know what we have to do," Peter told him.

---

"So what you're saying," Hiro said slowly, "is that we have to go back to every single universe and save _every single_ cheerleader? Every single version of Claire Bennet? Twenty-six different cheerleaders?"

"Yep," Peter said. "That's it. That's all we have to do."

"What do you mean, that's all?" Hiro said icily. "Do you remember how hard it was to save _our _cheerleader?"

"Yeah, well, that was back when we were lame," Peter said dismissively. "It won't be as hard this time."

"Why are you so damn happy about this?" Hiro demanded. "We just been told that we've got at _least_ another month's worth of work ahead of us before we see _any_ results whatsoever, and maybe we'll end up with nothing at all!"

"Whoa!" Peter said, stepping back. "Where is _this_ coming from? We are, actually, on the same side, you do remember that, right? We knew it wasn't just going to be over, we knew we'd still have work to do to get things straightened out!"

"Straightened out," Hiro repeated flatly. "You know, Peter, it's not so bad here."

"Um," Peter said. "Yes it is. What's wrong with you, Hiro? You wanted to get out of this hellhole just as bad as I do."

"Maybe I've changed my mind," Hiro said shortly, pushing his chair away and standing.

"Why would you have changed your mind? Hey!" he yelled at Hiro as he walked away. "You not going to have a choice! I'm going to do this with or without you, Hiro!"

"Yeah," Hiro said indifferently. "Good luck with that."

---

Suddenly, Hiro felt a very strong need to see Audrey. He wasn't sure what he was doing or saying, or whether he was going to regret it later, but he was making decisions, and for some reason it had to do with Audrey. He needed to see her.

He checked the second room in the Loft, but it was empty—she wasn't here. He stood in the middle of the room for a moment, thinking about where she might be—he remembered something from this morning, her saying that he was going to be moving the guns from the docks with Hana and Sparrow.

_All right, _he thought to himself, _let's try that. _He closed his eyes and thought of the docks, of Audrey and guns. Suction and a half-second of gray matter, and he was there. The first thing he saw was a gun in his face—fortunately, Audrey was behind it.

"God, Hiro!" she said, lowering the weapon. "I thought—my weirdo spider-sense thing was going off, I thought I was in danger." A pause. "You're not going to do something dangerous, are you?"

"Well," he said awkwardly. "Sort of. I was going to tell you that I love you."

There was a very long silence. Audrey stared at him like she wasn't seeing him, was seeing him for the first time—just staring.

"I love you too," she said finally, sounding almost surprised.

"Really?" The question was out before he could help it.

"Yeah," she said, smiling. "Really."

"Oh good."

---

Peter felt a little overwhelmed. First, he had to deal with this new curveball, this one-hundred-and-eighty degree turnaround of strategy that he was still wrapping his mind around. Now, on top of that, he'd just gotten in an explosive argument with his best friend for no reason that he could figure out. He'd never seen Hiro so tense, so oddly conflicted. The way he saw it, this was the easy part, the home stretch—they had everything plotted out from here to the end.

He could have sworn it was an end that both wanted. But now here was Hiro, saying they were fine where they were, that he didn't want to shoot for something better, and Peter couldn't understand it at all. _Well, screw that, _he thought to himself. _I've got a job to do. _

He walked across the room to where the map stretched from wall to wall, running his fingers down the nearest line. It seemed like forever since they'd started this, and now he was going to have to go back, all the way to the beginning. _What _was _the beginning? _he wondered, trying to remember back past traumas and scares and near-death experiences. _It was a book, and us sitting in a bar, daring ourselves to try it—and then what? _His fingers followed the string to the middle, to the very first line they'd constructed—and his hand froze.

His fingers were stopped inches away from a picture that made him very suddenly remember the first world, remember it like a blow to the head. It was a picture of Simone, one he'd taken of her years ago, Simone at an ice-skating rink with him but he knew what it was meant to symbolize. "Oh God," he breathed, letting his hand travel those last few inches and touch the picture, tip it up to the light. He remembered now.

Beta universe was the one they'd named 'Simone in the Kitchen', the horrifyingly Stepford world of memories and jarring surrealism. He remembered that universe very well—and he remembered thinking he wouldn't go back, remembered saying he would make Hiro take that one if ever necessary. Unfortunately for him, that had very recently not become an option.

"God," he repeated. "All right. Fine." He closed his eyes. "Let's do this."


	44. Beta Duo

It had been fourteen days since Peter Petrelli had killed his wife.

Fourteen days was more than enough time for him to purge himself of her—the clothes, the pictures, the presents, dropped into the sink and burned, like a high school breakup. He wasn't quick but he was thorough, burning her out of his house, out of him like she was a sickness. He had to be sure he got everything.

The problem, then, was this picture. It was the last one, everything else was gone—the only sign of her left in the entire house. He couldn't do it. He couldn't burn it and he wasn't sure why. It was the picture of them at the beach, him and Simone and Ben. It wasn't a very good picture, just the three of them lounging on the Florida sand from their vacation a year ago. The only thing really significant thing about it was the picture frame. It was one of those preschool macaroni craft projects, their son's pieced-together creation, and he thought his reluctance to destroy it might have a lot to do with the frame itself. He wasn't sure. He didn't know. So he stood by the sink, picture poised over it and ready to drop, and tried to decide himself.

"Dad," came Ben's voice from behind him, breaking him out of his indecision. He set the picture on the counter and turned to his son, still in his monster truck pajamas and rubbing sleep out of his eyes. "Is Mom home?"

Peter really hated it when he asked that question. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to clear his head, but it wouldn't clear, thoughts staying thick, clogged like a bad cold. "Sorry, buddy," he said finally. "She's not going to be home for another little while." He watched Ben's face fall, and he couldn't really take that, so he added. "How about we try going to preschool today, huh?"

"We didn't go last week," Ben said doubtfully.

It was true—Peter hadn't so much as stepped outside his door since it had happened, hadn't let anyone in or out of the house. The police had shown up on the doorstep at one point, but he'd sent them away—a hard mental push and they'd suddenly realized they needed to be somewhere else. That kind of coercion was a fairly new discovery—he was pretty sure it stemmed from mindreading somehow, but he didn't use it if he could help it. It hurt like hell, but it had been worth it to keep himself cocooned in his house, undisturbed.

"We'll go today," he promised halfheartedly, thinking with dread of the other side of his door, of the people he would have to smile at and talk to. "Go get ready, okay?"

He watched Ben run off to his bedroom, and then fell back against the counter's edge, dropping his face into his hands. "What am I doing?" he said out loud, mumbling into his palms. He was pretty sure his life was over, and he was almost as sure that there was something to blame.

His wife had cheated on him. He'd killed her. Something didn't add up here. He wasn't the type, really, had never done anything like it in his life, and now everything was wrecked and it couldn't be his fault. There was no way it could be his fault. A lot of anger and nothing to do with it.

He wandered over to his phone, where a blinking red light was telling him there were messages on the answering machine. He'd turned off the phone's ringer after two days—he didn't want to listen to it ringing, and he sure as hell wasn't going to pick up—and for the first time, he was wondering who might have called.

He pressed a button and the messages began to play—he walked back over to the sink and picked up the picture again, staring at it, trying to make a decision. Behind him, the machine unspooled its messages: the hospital, asking where he was—Simone's sister, telling to call—and, "Hi, Peter, this is Claire." Pause. "I—I just wondered if you were okay. If you know what I mean. I wondered if you needed anything." Awkward pause. "Listen, if you want to be left alone, I understand. I just wanted to you to know that I'm here if you need to talk."

The picture fell from his grip and hit the metal sink, cracking up the middle, hands paralyzed by epiphany. _It's her fault, _he thought suddenly, grabbing onto the idea like it was a lifeline. _It's her fault, it's her fault—she told me about them. She told me about Simone and Isaac, I never would have known. _

And there was the anger he'd felt fourteen days ago, back for only the second time in his life and tearing him up, blasting out the inside of him. He felt it like he'd felt right before he'd grabbed the gun and gone to the Loft, after he'd stood and listened to Claire tell him what was going on and where his life was going. Claire. _It's her fault of course it's her fault, _his mind was saying, winding up with his anger, looping faster and faster. _She did this __she told me __it's her fault it's her fault. _

"Ben!" he yelled. "Come on, I'll take you to preschool! Hurry, Daddy's got somewhere to go!"

---

The last thing Claire expected to see in her room at 7:00 in the morning was Peter. She'd been thinking a lot about him lately, fretting about him and his situation. She'd gone over it again and again, thinking about what she'd done, and she could only ever come up with one conclusion: she shouldn't have told him.

Peter was a person with very strong emotions—he loved with all his energy, with no reservations or fallbacks. She'd never before thought of the implications of that, the inevitable flipside, but then she'd never before seen the look in his eyes when she told him his wife was cheating. There was nowhere for his love to go but to turn on itself, turn itself inside out and turn into hate. _I never should have told him. He never would have suspected. _

She'd been calling him for days, and she'd even toyed with the idea of going to his house, but she_ never _would have expected him to show up here. He didn't look upset—he'd just appeared in her room between one second and the next, looking perfectly happy and normal.

"Peter!" she gasped, nearly tripping over her desk. "What are you doing here?"

"Claire," he said. "Hi. Are you in danger?"

It took her a moment to process this whiplash change of direction. "What?" she said blankly. "No."

Suddenly, another Peter burst through the door, and in an instant the answer was "yes". He looked _mad, _mad like fourteen days ago with that look in his eyes, and he was coming at her like she'd never even considered he would, coming at her like he meant to hurt her. She barely had time to get her hands up, protecting herself from the attack, when she felt a sharp jerk, an arm snaking around her waist and an abrupt sense of nothingness, of airless, terrifying vacuum.

Her feet hit ground again, and she sucked in air, light and noise everywhere and she was _not _where she had been before. "What—" she gasped. "What the—" She turned, and Peter was standing there beside her, framed against a background of roller coasters, loud crowds of people moving back and forth. But there had been two Peters, she could have sworn—it was crazy but she knew she'd seen two. "Peter, what _happened?_ Where are we?"

"Disneyland," he said apologetically. "Sorry. It was the first place I thought of."

"What's going on?" she asked, almost desperately, rattled and confused. "You look like Peter but you're _not, _his hair doesn't even look like that."

"I'm not going to try to explain," he said tiredly. "I'm sick of explaining. I saved your life. Don't ask."

"You saved my life," she said, and then she had to sit down on the nearest bench as reality hit her—_He tried to kill me. There are two Peters and mine tried to kill me. _"You saved me from _him_. Oh my God! Why was he trying to kill me?"

"I was hoping you might have _some _idea," the other Peter said, exasperated, "because I'm going to have to make sure he doesn't try it again."

"No, I know," she said, trying to get herself straightened out, calm enough to function. "It's bad but I think I know. See, I—wait, why am I telling you this? I don't even know who you are!"

"I'm just someone who's trying to help," he said, placating. "I did just save your life, remember?"

"Right," she said. "Well, I don't really understand, but I do get that something's wrong, so—he's mad at me because I told him his wife was cheating on him."

Peter did a double take. "_What? _That muffin-baking little bimbo? She _cheated _on him?"

The corner of Claire's mouth quirked up at his description, but then quickly went back to a frown, "Yeah, she was sleeping with this artist, Isaac Mendez. I don't know what he decided to do about it, but obviously he now thinks it's my fault or something, and I have to say, I don't entirely blame him. I shouldn't have told him."

"Wrong," Peter said firmly, "but you're going to have to work that out for yourself, or you're going to have some real problems down the road. Therapy, even—which, incidentally, isn't a bad idea."

"What?"

"Sorry," he said. "I don't have time to fix everything. I'll make sure you stay saved, though, hope that'll be enough. Listen, do you have any money? I've got—a hundred and twenty dollars, here, take it. Check into the Ayers Suites under the name Angela Petrelli, and I'll tell your dad to come get you, all right? I want you out of the way until I get this sorted out."

"Okay," she said slowly, confused beyond all hope of sorting it out. "What are you—"

It was too late—he was gone.

---

When someone appeared unexpectedly in his office, Noah Bennet's first instinct was to shoot him. That was only, however, until he saw that it was Peter Petrelli—he had no reason to shoot Peter, and anyway he knew it wouldn't do him any good.

"Peter," he said, setting his gun back down. "You look different. What are you doing here?"

"I'm still not going to explain," Peter said, confusingly. "I just wanted you to know that your daughter is in danger."

"What?" he demanded, jumping out of his seat.

"For the sake of sanity, I'm going to tell you that I'm not Peter Petrelli," he said, making even less sense. "I can tell you, though, that Peter Petrelli seems to have suffered a psychological break and is now targeting your daughter. She told him something he didn't want to hear, and he attacked her earlier this morning—tried to kill her, actually."

"What the—"

"Please," he said. "Just let me finish. Don't worry, she's fine. I saved her. You're welcome. I teleported her to Disneyland, California, where she's staying at the Ayers Suites under the name Angela Petrelli. She should be safe until you can contain the problem. I recommend your company pick Peter up as soon as possible and, I don't know—get him some therapy. Get him off the streets until he stops being dangerous."

"Listen, I—"

"Sorry," Peter said glibly. "I've got to go. Just do it, okay?"

With another thought, he was back in the Loft, standing where he had been in front of the tangled string map. _Okay, _he thought, _good. Perfect. That was easy. I don't need Hiro. This is not that hard. _"Okay," he said out loud. "One down—twenty-five to go."


	45. Alpha: Discord in the Garden Tonight

"Okay," Peter said briskly. "One down—twenty-five to go."

"Are you kidding?" came a voice from behind him. "No way you did it that fast."

He turned to see Hiro standing by the window, arms wrapped around Audrey with her body pressed comfortably back against his chest, intertwined with each other as if they didn't mind if they melted into one person and never went back. He didn't let go of her or move toward Peter as he spoke, just turned out a little to see him, framing their strange silhouette against the eleven o' clock sun.

Peter studied them for a moment, gears turning in his head and falling into places that suddenly made a lot of sense. He hadn't understood the sudden shift in Hiro's motivations, the last-minute pullback, but faced with a visual aide like this one, he couldn't help but catch on. "I see," he said, words coming out a little sharp around the edges. "I get it now. This is what it was all about, isn't it, Hiro?"

"What are you talking about?" Hiro responded calmly, but Peter saw his arms go a little tighter, trapping Audrey in as if he thought she might escape.

"You know what I'm talking about," Peter said venomously, feeling suddenly a thousand times more abandoned than before, a thousand times more betrayed because of what he had been betrayed for. "It's _her_, isn't it? That whole decision was because of her."

"So what if it is?" Hiro said, his voice charging up, a little defensive, a little defiant.

Audrey pulled out of his arms, turning to face him, searching. "Hiro," she said with a warning of her own, a worry at the sudden anger crackling between them that somehow, suddenly had to do with her. "What's going on?"

Hiro paid no attention to her, locked into an exclusive two-way confrontation. "You have no idea what you're talking about. You have no idea."

"Yeah, because _I've _never been in love," Peter shot back. "I know exactly how you feel, Hiro, and let me tell you, it's not important enough. Not for this. Not to throw _everything _away like this."

"You're just afraid you can't do it without me," Hiro snapped, and there was too much truth in it but he couldn't take it back now. "I've carried you every step of the way and _you know _you can't do it alone. Well, _good_—I intend this to be my world, Peter, this right here. I want this to by my future."

"Oh, I am _so _sorry I managed to do something right without your wise and helpful guidance," Peter said, stunned into truth as well, the gloves coming off with frightening quickness. "Wasn't it you that just made the comment aboutS how fast I got the first one done? Must be quite a shock, finding out that nobody needs you, Hiro. Go ahead, cling to your girlfriend—at least she might pretend she does, make you feel better."

"Hiro, I do _not _understand why this is about me," Audrey cut in angrily, confused and worried and shut out.

"It's not about you, honey," he said, but he still wasn't looking at her, using her to strike at Peter. "It's about his own needy dependency, his own selfishness and insecurities. He wants to sacrifice it all, my whole world on the altar of his guilt, on his guilt for not being able to save the world the first time around. Well, guess what, Peter? We don't get do-overs. We shouldn't get second chances. No one else does. You don't run from your mistakes, Peter, you turn around and you face them, and you learn to deal."

"I'm just trying to save the world," Peter said. "Yes, it's my world, but it's everyone else's world, too—it's your world. Look out that window and tell me you wouldn't trade that for a real life."

"I wouldn't trade it for _anything,_" Hiro said fiercely. "I wouldn't trade it for a thousand stupid dinner parties, I wouldn't trade it for anything."

"She's not worth it!" Peter yelled, losing it completely, frustration and isolation boiling over into explosion. "Stop _lying _to yourself, stop projecting, she is _not _worth it!"

Hiro reacted like he'd been slapped, pulling back, face twisting, reacting, building up pressure and anger and something was going to give. He moved toward Audrey abruptly, jerkily, grabbing her hands and pulling her to him. "Audrey," he said. "Will you marry me?"

She gaped, mouth going wide like she was choking and she was, not breathing, stunned and blinded. Behind her, she heard Peter gasp, and she sympathized, sucker-punched, blindsided. "Are you _kidding?_" she said finally. "Like _this_, Hiro?"

He tightened his grip on her hands and pulled her closer, intent on her answer for a hundred different reasons. "I'm sorry it came out like that, Audrey," he said, not sounding the least bit sorry at all, "but I'm serious. Will you marry me?"

She snatched her hands from his, backing away. "Not like this, Hiro," was all she could get out, but she knew he understood. "_Not _like this."

She turned, needing to get into the other room as quickly as possible, and to slam the door as loudly as she could. This was clearly not her battle, and she'd gotten pulled into it somehow. She had no intention of taking any more bullets from friendly fire.

"Thanks a lot!" Hiro yelled at Peter.

"I had nothing to do with that!" Peter defended. "That was all you, and it was a hell of a thing you just did to her. Not that that I care—just letting you know you're a bastard."

"You don't care," Hiro repeated flatly.

"She's not in _my _future," said Peter more coldly than he felt.

"So that's what it comes down to," Hiro said grimly. "Whose dream is more important.

Which one of us is willing to be more selfish, to set the other person's dream on fire in favor of ours."

"That would be me," Peter snapped back. "See, _my _dream is good for everyone, so it knocks your dream straight out of the park."

"Everyone except me," Hiro pointed out. "It's not what I want. I'm not chasing after freaking will-o-the-wisp perfect worlds anymore, I'm going to stay here and I'm going to make it work. That's called life."

"Sorry, but you're not going to have a choice," Peter said bluntly. "Twenty-five more cheerleaders saved and things will just be fixed—they'll go back to the way they're _supposed _to be."

"Yeah, they will, won't they?" Hiro said thoughtfully. "I guess I'll just have to stop you."

"You can _try_," Peter said, amused.

Hiro didn't wait to be asked again. His mind was telling him this was out of control, so out of control and going on insane, but he couldn't stop. He'd made a choice and it had nearly killed him, and now he couldn't back down, could only go over the top. He closed his eyes and jumped, appearing behind Peter before he knew he was gone, grabbing Peter's arm and twisting it up behind his back, wrapping the other arm around his neck.

_I could break his neck, _he realized with sudden clarity. How had they gotten to this point so fast? How had it exploded this badly? There were so many tensions, the stakes were so high, fighting over worlds and futures. They'd always stood together when it came to these huge choices, and now for the first time they were disagreeing, and the disagreement had to be as huge as what they faced, made violent by the sheer scope of the issues. There was no way this could end well.

Hiro felt Peter's body react to his hold immediately, grabbing his arm and pulling it away from his neck, twisting around and driving both of them into the wall. Peter shoved against him, using his weight to pin Hiro back, and flame blossomed up in his right hand, close enough to Hiro that he could feel the heat on his face.

"I could kill you," Peter said. "I could kill you right now."

Hiro wondered if it was true—if Peter was having the same epiphany that he had, the first thought that turned toward the offensive, the _what if _that had never entered the relationship before, had never made the other person the enemy or had never seen them that way. One thing was for sure—he was never going to be able to look at Peter again without that size-up, without the defensive reckoning and label of 'threat'. He wondered if Peter could really do it. He wondered if _he _could do it.

"Then why don't you?" he asked, half-curious, half daring him to try, just to see if he would.

Peter let go of him, abruptly pushing away. "Because I don't have to," he said, and the flame disappeared, snuffed out as he closed his hand. "You can't stop me."

Peter closed his eyes, and there was a swift suck of air, a soft _pop_—and he was gone.


	46. Gamma Duo

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks for your patience, guys. One word: midterms.

---

When Peter came into the new universe, he noticed that it was very, very quiet. It wasn't one of Hiro's apocalyptic universes, though—when he opened his eyes, there were people around, crowds of people everywhere but unnervingly silent and still. There were two large groups that he could see from where he stood on the wet, empty sidewalk, two separate groups clustered around two sets of TV monitors and speakers. There was something about their faces that put Peter instantly on edge—the way they were staring hungrily up at the monitors, like refugees, like baby birds looking to be fed.

None of them seemed to have noticed his sudden appearance, raptly intent on the screen, not a single head turning toward him. _Okay, _Peter thought to himself, _There is something very wrong about this. _It all seemed familiar, the screens, the situation—Hiro had probably explained it to him back in the first universes, but all he remembered about Gamma universe was a vague reference to George Orwell. He wasn't sure what was going on here.

He moved carefully closer to the nearest group of people, and the words from the speakers began to get through to him, hitting his ears so that, suddenly, he was listening. "—the losses in the recent conflict," the voice was saying, "will not stop our reach from expanding. The new draft order will allow our young men to join in our country's crusade, let them be a part of it as it rolls forward like a wave, sweeping all the earth before it."

Peter took another step forward, almost against his will—he had a vague idea of the ridiculousness of what was being said, but he could feel his thoughts gumming up, moving to align themselves with the words—agreeing, wanting to agree.

In a sudden last spark of independent thought, he looked at the screen and realized exactly who it was he was agreeing with. It was Sylar, sitting there onscreen in a sharp suit and a sharper smile, telling him what to do. But even that recognition couldn't snap him out of it. He almost even knew what was happening, but the words had trapped him, pinned him down. He couldn't look away.

---

Hiro was having trouble thinking of a way to fix any of this. Everything was screwed up—everything was exploded with the shrapnel flying everywhere. Peter was mad at him and he was mad at Peter—Audrey was probably never going to talk to him again. Things had not gone so well. He didn't want to it to be this way but he couldn't see a way to fix it without backing down. He was not going to back down. He knew he was right; he wanted to be right.

Sometime over the last five years, he'd developed a deep desire to not be told what to do, and an equally deep stubbornness about it. It probably had to do with what he'd been living with, the government slowly twisting itself, inching closer to martial law—the kinds of situations he'd been in, where he'd been forced to make difficult decisions and then to live with them. He'd had to develop a sense of surety about the decisions he made, an unequivocal belief that he'd chosen the right thing, or else go completely insane. Growing up alongside that forced self-confidence was the independence, the strong reaction to being forced into _anything_, having any decisions made for him that he could make himself. He didn't _trust_ anybody, not really, not after everything, and so the only person he relied on was himself.

Now here was Peter, flying in the face of everything he'd been building up for years, telling him what to do, telling him he was wrong, telling him he wasn't going to have a chance to make his own decisions. _He _was the one who made decisions for _other _people, never the other way around. He'd taken obsessive control of his life as a defense mechanism, a way to stay alive, and he was subconsciously convinced that if he relinquished that control, he just might die.

As for Rho universe—well, Rho universe was nice. It was perfect and peaceful and wonderfully, ridiculously _nice_. Hiro didn't trust it. After all these years of getting things yanked from under him, he wasn't convinced he was going to get a happy ending. He wasn't sure he deserved one. He _was _sure that he didn't want to reach for something that might leave him hanging, and he was sure that he didn't want to gamble everything on a perfection that was entirely too good to be true.

He didn't need perfection—not really. He even thought it might start to bother him, after awhile. In complete honesty, he knew he'd rather stay here and try to keep building what he'd been building for years. He would rather stay here with Audrey—and with Peter, of course. Peter was an inextricable part of this world, and he knew he'd have to come to terms with that eventually. For now, all he knew was that he wasn't going to be forced into anything.

He walked over to the string map, beginning to wonder how far he'd go with this. He knew he wouldn't help Peter, but Peter had made it quite clear that he was going to try anyway. Would he stop at passive opposition, or would he actually get into the fight, actively work against Peter? _What are you going to do? _he asked himself ironically. _Kill a cheerleader? _

Either way, he'd have awhile to think about it. Peter was only on Gamma universe, and anyway, Hiro had a vague memory of Gamma being rather difficult to deal with. He pulled the Gamma string away from the rest, glancing over it to refresh his memory. A picture of Claire Bennet with her hair colored black, possibly by a Sharpie. A magazine clipping of a TV. A picture of George Orwell's "1984". _Oh. Oh yeah. _

He was still _very _mad at Peter, but he couldn't help but feel a twinge of worry. Gamma universe was a bit of a mousetrap, and it was difficult to get out of if you didn't know what you were getting into. "Earplugs," he mumbled to himself. "I should have told him to bring earplugs."

---

As Sylar's words washed over him, Peter started to feel something push back. It was a familiar feeling, a shift of brainwaves and a bending—his body cashing in on its unnatural advantage, pushing back, pulling in the things that were in front of him and folding them into himself. He adapted.

He felt his thoughts clear, bending back into shape, pulsing back to independent life. He listened to the words coming from the speakers and he started to disbelieve them. He shook his head, clearing the last of it away like cobwebs, regaining control of his mind like a spreading thaw. He took it into himself and he nullified it.

"Ohhhh!" He said it out loud before he could help it, but it hardly mattered—nobody batted an eye, so much as turned to look at him. "Mind-control. Right. Lucky me."

He hardly had time to wonder what to make of this universe—he'd never read Orwell, so it was more difficult for him to put soulless, dystopian societies in context—before the universe itself opened up to him and gave him a neon red arrow, pointing the way.

He heard a sudden, sharp scream, and his body snapped around instantly, searching for the sound. He knocked into several other, unmoving people just turning around; it was strange to be the only person reacting in such a large group, almost enough to make him believe he'd imagined the sound in the first place. He wasn't, of course, and within seconds he saw where the scream had come from.

Just down the street from him, he saw a pretty, black-haired teenage girl standing on the sidewalk, surrounded by several men dressed in black uniform. Obviously, they were trying to take her into some kind of custody, but just as obviously, they were having trouble. As he watched, she punched one of them solidly in the face, and he stumbled back, nose bleeding hard enough to splash onto the ground—behind her, two others pounced, grabbing her arms and pinning them.

Peter's hero complex kicked in automatically, and before he knew what he was doing, he was pushing through the rest of the crowd, running toward the fight. One of the soldiers noticed Peter at the last minute, but only had time to yell out in warning before he hit, tackling one of the soldiers holding the girl back into the wall with enough force that he could feel something crack, bones or wall or something else entirely. As he spun and threw the soldier into another coming at him, he could see the girl jump into action as well, landing a solid kick on her attacker's kneecap in a way that twisted it sickeningly sideways, apparently not content to wait to be rescued.

Peter shoved two men away from him with a quick psychic burst, one of them landing hard in the street and rolling, the other slamming back into a lamppost—neither of them got up. He turned back just in time to see the black-haired girl grabbing the last man's hair and slamming his head into the corner of the wall. She jumped away as he slumped down to the sidewalk, glancing warily over at him.

"Thanks," she said, looking as if she would be entirely willing to slam _his _head into a wall, too.

He stared at her—she looked familiar, but somehow he couldn't place it. "No prob—" he started, but then suddenly it clicked, sliding into place, the hair abruptly coming into context with the rest of her face. "Claire? Wait, are you Claire Bennet."

"Yes," she said, moving back further, alarmed. "How do you know my name?"

"Awesome!" he said to himself, ignoring her. "Awesome, that's perfect. I guess that's what I get for being a good Samaritan." Turning back to her, he asked, "So, do you figure I just saved you, or what?"

"I guess you did," she said warily. "Listen, I have to—"

"You seemed like you knew what you were doing, there," he observed. "So do you think you're going to need saving anymore?"

"Hell no!" she said, offended. "I can take care of myself."

"Good. Perfect. Well, that should be it, then. Thanks so much," he said, holding out his hand.

Clearly wondering about the state of his mental health, Claire shook his hand quickly and then backed away, her face a question mark and an accusation. Then, as she watched, things got even more confusing—he closed his eyes, his eyebrows coming down in an expression of concentration—and then he disappeared.


	47. Alpha: Strange Bedfellows

It was only after he was already jumping home that it occurred to Peter that he might not, actually, want to go home at all. Back at the Loft, there was Hiro and a major, still-unresolved conflict. They had already proven that afternoon how dangerous things could get, and he still wasn't sure how to stop it. He could apologize, except mostly he still wasn't sorry.

It was too late now, anyway—the Loft materialized around him, and instantly he was glancing around, sweeping for the room for the kind of threats he'd never had to look for. Hiro wasn't anywhere to be seen—he relaxed a little. Not completely, though, because Audrey _was _there, standing in the kitchen, looking at him as if she expected some kind of new explosion—holding her breath, holding her bread knife with a little more purpose.

"Hey," he tossed out, testing the water.

"Right," Audrey said tensely. "Can we not?"

"We're going to have to at some point," Peter said, careful not to move any closer. "We do live in the same apartment."

"I'm not leaving, if that's what you mean," she snapped, fingers tightening around the knife's handle. "This is my home too. I've fought for it just as much as—"

"Nobody said that," he interjected quickly. "I didn't say that. I just—I don't really want to fight with you. I guess I was just saying that…I'm, um, here. I mean, if you want to trash talk Hiro, or anything—I'm up for that."

Her grip loosened a little bit. "You can't possibly be as angry at him as I am."

"I'm angry at him _because _of you," he offered, "but I don't really think I'm angry at you."

"What do you mean?" she said, smiling humorlessly. "You hate me."

"True," Peter said, giving her a genuine smile back. "But the enemy of my enemy is my friend."

"Oh God," Audrey said, startled. "Don't call him that. We were almost engaged this morning.

"All right, I won't," Peter said amenably, but it didn't matter if he called Hiro his enemy out loud—that was the way he was thinking of him now, so that was what he was.

"Listen," Audrey said, leaning over the counter, "since we're in such a sharing-and-caring mood at the moment—you want to tell me what the hell that was this morning? I still really don't understand what I had to do with any of that argument."

"Oh," Peter said. "Well…" Fighting with Hiro was one thing, but he had to consider the implications of telling Audrey exactly what was going on. Of telling her that Hiro had been seriously considering trading her in for a better world, a newer model.

Fortunately, he didn't have to answer. The door opened and they both snapped around to it, instantly falling into defensive stances, the knife coming up in Audrey's hand. It was only Hiro—neither of them relaxed. Hiro walked into the apartment, eyeing their unsubtle defensiveness with a slight hostility of his own.

"Where have you been?" Audrey asked, her tone prickly with warning.

"I've just been out with some of the boys, is that all right with you, honey?" he said with a bit of an edge in his voice. He didn't move from the doorway, eyeing them as if he thought they might attack. "I was out with Zane Taylor. I just thought you guys should know—"

"You thought we should know what?" Peter said sharply, even less willing to forgive Hiro now that he saw him again, standing there, condescending unrepentant angry.

Hiro sliced his eyes at Peter but didn't respond to the bite in his voice. "I thought you should know that that there was a raid in Brooklyn today," he said flatly, not looking either of them in the eyes. "Homeland Security arrested over a hundred people on suspicion of terrorism."

There was a significant pause as their attention was pulled to something other than how much they disliked each other. "Anyone we know?" Audrey asked finally, crossing her arms in on herself.

"That's the thing," Hiro continued, eyes down. "They weren't specials. They weren't any of us, they were just—normal people."

"Really?" Peter said, surprised. "Interesting. Looks like their reach is—expanding." His gaze flicked up, staring into the side of Hiro's head. "Looks like things are just getting worse and worse, doesn't it?"

"Peter, would you mind getting the hell out?" Hiro had meant it to be polite—the snippiness had just slipped in there, apparently intent on showing how he really felt.

"I think I would mind it a lot," Peter replied with the same level of veneered, suppressed fury.

"I need to talk to Audrey," Hiro said. "Please. Leave."

"You sure she wants to talk to you?" Peter asked, glancing back at Audrey, who had suddenly gone very still.

"That's none of your damn business," Hiro said pleasantly. "Go fix the world or something. All of this will be here when you get back."

Peter didn't bite—probably because he was starting to get a little tired already. Not exhausted, not incapacitated, but tired enough to not want to get into it with Hiro now that he knew exactly what that entailed. "Whatever," he said, shrugging. "The quicker I get through it, the quicker this _won't _be what I'm getting back to."

He walked over to the string map as Hiro moved carefully closer to Audrey, wondering whether he could stall long enough to figure out what Hiro intended to do. He was fairly sure that, short of full ritual seppuku, there wasn't much that Hiro could do to get Audrey back, but it would be interesting to watch what he tried. On the other hand, he thought as he studied the Gamma line, it felt weirdly voyeuristic, and as he heard Hiro say, "Audrey," in a way that made it sound like _please, please, please, _he knew he couldn't stay. He closed his eyes and jumped away.

"Audrey," Hiro said, walking toward her, wanting to move closer but not daring. "I'm sorry."

"Are you?" Audrey said icily. "Well, that makes it all okay, then."

"I know," Hiro said. _I know I'm a jerk. I know I'm a liar and a user and a bastard. I know you can't forgive me but I want you to anyway. _"Do you have half an hour?"

"What?" Audrey said, surprised at the sudden change of direction.

"Do you have half an hour?" he repeated.

"What—yes, I think so. _Why?_" she demanded.

He reached out and took her wrists. She flinched away instantly, trying to pull back, but he said, "Calm down. It's all right. Just close your eyes."

Startled into obedience, she closed them, and he pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her shoulders, and then there was a breath-catching moment of nothingness, antimatter pressing in on them as if it meant to crush them, collapse them in on themselves. She gasped convulsively, her eyes flying open—then went wider, stunned.

The first thing that hit her was the noise. A dull roar pounded itself against her ears, not painful or oppressive but growling with power like she'd never heard, thunderously present. It was a waterfall. She was standing on a waterfall.

She had a moment of panic, reaching back for Hiro, before she realized they were standing on a large, flat rock in the middle of the river, twenty feet or so from the edge of the waterfall—close enough to look down and see the water break itself to bits at the bottom, frothing hungrily up—far enough away that she only scared enough for a good adrenalin rush.

"Hiro—" she gaped, speechless, breathless, disoriented by the sheer spectacle and grand-scale grandeur. "Where are we?"

"Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe," he said matter-of-factly. "Turn around."

She turned, almost afraid of what she would find. There, on the other end of the large rock, was what appeared, incredibly, to be a picnic. A card table was set up in the middle, well away from the river, a full meal spread out over its surface, complete with a tablecloth, china, and badly flickering candles. "You're kidding," she said, feeling as if she might burst into hysterical laughter.

"I'm not kidding," he said, leading her over to the table. "Hasn't it always been your dream to have an impromptu meal on top of the world's largest waterfall? I mean, who wouldn't want that?"

"_Hiro,_" she said, trying not to smile and losing ground rapidly

"So," he said, grinning. "Forgive me?"


	48. Delta Duo: Details

AUTHOR'S NOTE: 400 reviews! Holy freaking jeez! You guys blow me away, you really do. I love and appreciate every bit of feedback--your praise and criticism is the fuel to write the next chapter, every time. Love, love, love. Love my reviewers to the moon and back.

---

It was like nothing Peter had ever felt before. The air felt strangely sticky, molasses-clinging and thick. The last few seconds of his jump were oddly difficult, almost painful, like pushing through something that wasn't terribly interested in being pushed through. It took him a few moments to clear his head, disoriented, thrown—almost upset. He'd never felt this before, certainly hadn't expected to feel it here.

According to the map, Delta universe was the one with the concentration camps and multiple Hiros—there had been nothing about feeling like something was trying to attach itself to all of his limbs, weigh them down, blank him out. The concentration camp part was instantly obvious—it was dark, but he could see enough to tell that he was in some kind of stark, open courtyard, and he could see fences away to his left. He shook his head, looking around—and saw three men in gray uniforms with guns coming up into their hands, heading towards him with a very purposeful sort of walk. _Right, _he thought, _don't know what this is, but I think it's time to get out of here. _He closed his eyes and thought about jumping away.

Nothing.

His eyes snapped back open on the same grey courtyard, the slightest bit of panic starting to rise in the back of his throat. He'd _felt _himself start to jump, everything working like normal, automatic instinctive—but something had pulled him back down, a leadenness in his limbs like a lock on his abilities. It wasn't working. Nothing was working.

Backing away slightly, eyeing the guards who were quickly coming up on him, he tried to call fire up into his palm. Nothing. He felt his ability choke at the gate, unable to shove past that same strange leaden feeling. The guards were only feet away and pulling out their guns—"Get down!" one of them was yelling, aiming the gun straight at his head. "Get down and get your hands on your head, _now!_"

Peter threw his hands out to them, trying one last time for telekinesis, for anything, but there was nothing. Bottlenecked. Dizziness confusion panic panic panic.

"I said get _down!_" the guard yelled, pressing the muzzle of his gun against Peter's head.

"All right," Peter said, trying to quickly reformat his thinking patterns, figure something out that didn't involve the abilities that connected everywhere, hooked into every part of his life. "All right, it's fine. I'm down. It's fine."

It wasn't fine. The gunmetal against the skin of his temple was absolutely unbearable, made him crazy with the need to move even though he was effectively muzzled, couldn't do anything but needed to do something anyway. He didn't think, just went with his instincts, which were crazy and stupid but irresistible. Anything to get the gun away from his head.

As the guard with the gun against his head reached back for handcuffs, Peter did the first thing that came to mind—he grabbed the man's wrist and pulled, standing as he did and flipping the man over his shoulder. He had an extreme element of surprise, and he got away with it—but as the other two came at him, he realized with a sudden, perfect clarity that he didn't have much experience in straight, honest hand-to-hand combat.

One thing he knew, as the other two began to fire at him, was that he really, really needed to not get shot. With his abilities blocked as they seemed to be, he could get hit and actually die, and that wasn't something he was willing to deal with. He dropped to the ground, collapsing on top of the first guard just as he was beginning to get back up, quickly slamming an elbow into the man's head to make sure the odds stayed reasonable.

He felt someone grab his arm, dragging him up, and he kicked his legs out behind him, resisting being pulled up, pulling back down—he connected with the man's legs and the guard came down on top of him, crushing him to the ground. He got his shoulders up under the man's weight and _shoved_, flipping over on top of him with his knees on the man's chest. He had a split second of wondering where the third man was before a gun came down on the back of his head, knocking him into black for a split seconds, and he rolled off the guard with his head screaming pain, blood sliding down the back of his neck. As the second guard started to scramble up Peter twisted to get his legs around, landing a solid kick on the man's temple that dropped him back to the ground, instantly ragdoll limp.

He turned to see the last guard aiming at him, squeezing the trigger, and he curled in on himself as the gun went off, feeling the bullet graze by his back and bite into the ground. He didn't have many tricks, not without his abilities, so he went for the same one and lashed his legs out toward the guard's legs, scissoring them out from under him and taking him down to the ground, gun skittering away. The man backpedaled, scrambling to stand with his eyes going every which way, looking for an out, an advantage. Peter saw his mouth coming open to yell for help and he grabbed a handful of the man's shirt, punched him in the jaw, snapping his head back.

The guard got his hands through Peter's and went for his neck, and there were a few moments of frantic closer grappling, violent and focused and intent. The guard broke away, moving back to reach for his gun, and Peter moved, pulling back and tackling him down, grabbing the man's collar and slamming his head into the packed-dirt ground. The man's eyes glazed over a little but his hands were still reaching for Peter's neck, so he pulled the man up and slammed his head down again, wincing at the audible crack of his skull hitting the ground, his body going completely slack.

"Okay," Peter said out loud, getting up, backing away. "Okay. All right." He could feel blood dripping down from the back of his head—he was dizzy and freaked and in pain—he was in the middle of a concentration camp with no abilities and not way to get out. He almost tripped over one of the guards as he backed away, and he knew he had to move. There was nobody as far as he could see in the dark, only outlines of buildings and flat earth, but it was far too open for him to be standing out here with three bodies. He had to get out. He couldn't teleport, couldn't jump, somehow had to get out of a concentration camp with nothing but his own hands and wits.

He bent to grab the guard's gun where it had fallen on the ground, and then sprinted for the nearest fence. It was only forty, fifty feet away, but he wasn't used to having to run—he was a good runner but it felt strange to run again, the ground felt strange under his feet where he was used to having it disappear and become something else, fade to black and instant gratification. Even the gun felt strange in his hand—he wanted his own body to be a weapon, to defend himself with a thought, not to rely on some machine. Nathan had always told him that his abilities would become a crutch, but he'd always disagreed—always thought that if it was a part of you it couldn't be a crutch, couldn't be a crutch in the same way that your arms and legs couldn't be a crutch, something given to you naturally that you were supposed to use, supposed to take hold of and magnify. He was starting to think that maybe Nathan had been right.

He hit the fence hands-first, three layers of chain link with curls of barbed wire on the top. He glanced up at it, sizing it up as if it were an opponent, putting his hands through the links and getting ready to climb. Just as he was getting his first foothold, a light snapped suddenly on, blasting straight to him, over him, searing his vision back to yellow stripes. He jumped away from the fence like it had shocked him, throwing his hands up to shield his eyes from the spotlight, and behind the light a voice blared out of a loudspeaker from a tower he hadn't seen, blowing his cover, his nerves all to hell.

"ESCAPE," the loudspeaker voice was saying. "PRISONER ESCAPE BY THE SOUTH WALL. ALL GUARDS TO THE SOUTH WALL."

Footsteps behind him, and Peter turned to see gray uniforms converging on him, coming out from the dark between the buildings to surround him with their guns pointed straight at him. He brought his own gun up jerkily, thinking _Right, hope I still remember how to do this, _but there was an immediate rash of guns cocking around him, a dozen laser sights playing over his chest with no chance of a miraculous healing if someone pulled the trigger.

"Drop the gun!" the nearest man yelled, his face blanked out by the brightness of the light. "Drop it, get on your knees!"

Peter had already used up his recklessness for the night—there was no way out of this one. He dropped his gun to the ground and fell slowly to his knees, hands up to show them that they shouldn't shoot, not now when he would actually die from it. "Okay," he said, hating the surrender but literally out of options. "Okay, fine. It's fine. I'm down."

A guard moved to handcuff him, and Peter caught a glimpse of a bruise spreading across the side of his face. It looked like someone had kicked him in the head—which explained the unnecessary roughness of the man's grip as he pulled Peter's hands behind him, snapping the handcuffs around his wrists. "Hey," he said as the man cuffed him. "Sorry for kicking you in the face."

"Shut up," said the guard.


	49. Delta Duo: The Crutch

"So you're going to let him try to fix every single universe by himself?" Audrey asked, her voice carefully neutral. She wasn't trying to pick a fight—they'd just come out of one, and she had no desire to start another. She just wanted to understand, and to push him, maybe, if she could. She loved him but she knew he was being stubborn and childish; him and Peter locking heads like two hormone-crazed Alpha males; it was destructive. She wasn't sure how much of that she could say.

"Yes," Hiro said decisively, almost vindictively. "If he thinks he can do it, then it's his fault when he fails."

"Can you tell me something?" Audrey said, wrapping her arms around his waist and looking up at him. _Nobody will tell me. Nobody will tell me what's going on. _"What—I mean, what will happen if he saves all the cheerleaders? What's do you guys think is going to happen?"

Hiro looked past her to the crisscross of the map, biting the inside of his cheek. _Well, Audrey, _he imagined himself saying, _if we fix all of the universes, the theory is they're going to pull together into one perfect universe that, hey—doesn't include you. _"Um," he prevaricated. "We read about it some in that book Peter used to have, but we're not one hundred percent sure. Basically what we know is that that 'save the cheerleader, save the world' is still in effect—so we have to go save all the cheerleaders and that will, at the very least, stop the bomb from going off and kind of reform the universe around that. We don't really know—which is what I have a problem with. I don't want to risk it." _Close enough. _

Audrey put her head on his shoulder and looked out the window, looking out at the part of New York right where the bomb had hit, within sight of the cutout swath of black and blackened metal that had never quite built itself back up after being blasted out. It would be better to look out and not see that—the painfully unhealed wound. But she was practical—she wasn't Peter with stars in her eyes. She was inclined to agree with Hiro. "You used to come back and tell me about those universes," she said. "Some of them sounded really dangerous."

"Some of them _are _really dangerous," Hiro agreed. "I've been shot, he's been caught twice, we've gotten into swordfights—it gets crazy out there."

"So—you aren't worried about him getting hurt?" Audrey asked. "You won't feel guilty if he just—doesn't come back some day?"

He'd never thought about it. He didn't want to think about it. "He can take care of himself," he said finally.

"All right," she said, pulling away and walking over to the string map. It was annoying and annoyingly present, irritating to have to walk around, but it had grown on her. She was starting to like the way it hung in the living room like it meant to catch flies, strangely, messily artistic. "How long has he been gone on this one?" she asked casually. "A couple of hours, right? When did he leave?"

"Three o'clock," Hiro said instantly, voice unreadable. "He's been gone two hours."

"Okay," Audrey said. "I'm sure that's normal."

"Yeah," Hiro said. "I'm sure it is."

---

It was very dark inside the building they put Peter in, a very small, freestanding building no more than a few feet wide, with walls as thick as any he'd ever seen and only two barred window-slits near the ceiling. The darkness was thick on the air and palatable, oppressive—so dark that he didn't notice there was someone else in the room until they moved.

A silhouette broke into the thin stream of light from the window, and he pulled back, pressing himself against the closed door. "Who is that?" said a voice, taut and frightened, instantly recognizable.

"Claire?"

He saw her move away, startled to hear her name—his eyes began to adjust to the dark, and he could pick out her wide mouth, her eyes too big for her face. "Peter?" she said, her voice tripping on the word as if her voice wasn't quite used to speaking.

"Yeah," he said. "Hi."

She hit him hard, driving him back into the door with her arms wrapped around his neck. He hugged her back on instinct, wondering suddenly when it was that he'd last been hugged. "I thought they got you out," she said, thrilled and devastated, horribly happy to see him. "They said you got out, they said you were gone."

"I'm sure they did," he explained. "I'm sure I'm fine—I mean—" he said awkwardly as she pulled away, confused. "I'm from another universe. I was sent here to save you—which apparently I suck at."

She withdrew completely, looking at him like she thought he might be very crazy. "Wait," she said, "_what?_"

---

"So," Peter said. "How do we get out of here?"

"Sorry," Claire replied, "but we don't. I've been here for almost three years now—there's no _getting out_."

Peter's eyes had adjusted to the darkness now, and he could see her like he hadn't been able to before—now he could see her hair cut short, carelessly choppy, her arms too skinny, unhealthy-skinny, heroin couture. He believed her when she said she'd been here three years; he would have believed her if she said she'd been here forever. "Why hasn't anyone saved you yet?" It sounded strange and simplistic coming out of his mouth, but to his mind, it followed logically—Claire was in trouble, somebody saved her.

"Who's going to save me?" Claire said flatly—not sarcastic but flat, dead-flat, unemotional. "Everybody's in here. Hiro Nakamura tries sometimes, but he's only one guy. You just have to get used to it."

"I don't have to get used to it!" Peter protested. "This isn't even my world! I don't live here!"

"Doesn't matter," Claire said unsympathetically. She'd cooled to him considerably since she'd found out who he really was—she seemed a little weirded out. There had been no more hugging. "You know, actually, I've been hearing lately that Hiro Nakamura's dead, so you might as well buckle down for the long haul."

"That's ridiculous."

"What kind of milk and honey world do you _live _in?" Claire said skeptically.

"Believe me, it's more like vodka and lemon," Peter said ironically, sitting back down beside her on the single bed. "Well, what do you do, just sit in here?" he demanded, exasperated. It was the same feeling as the gun against his head, the instinctual bucking against confinement.

"Yes, Peter," Claire said, her voice going edged. "I just _sit _in here. I sit in this room with walls two feet thick and four locks on the door and I _don't _beat my hands bloody on the concrete anymore. You know why? Because that _hurts, _and it doesn't heal. I just sit here in this room that's _exactly _twelve steps across and five steps wide and sometimes I get so depressed that I want to _scream, _and sometimes I do scream. Sometimes I scream and they come in here with their guns, and they make me stop. So yes. I just sit here."

She wasn't his Claire, but the reaction was so deeply ingrained in him, to save her, to protect her. He reached out and pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her bony shoulders. She went rigid for a second and then relaxed, her body reacting to someone shielding her. "It's okay," he said. "It's fine. I came here to save you and I'm going to save you, all right? That's my job. I've been in worse spots. This is no big deal." She looked skeptical but hopeful, hugging him tighter as if she thought that might help. "So," he clarified. "We've got _no _help? Nobody on the outside?"

"Nope," she said grimly. "It's just us."

Just as the words got out of her mouth, lights snapped on outside, the same searing bright spotlights that had caught him at the fence—the same sirens and sudden explosion of life in the sleeping compound, loudspeakers blaring danger and disruption. Peter's arms closed back around Claire instinctively, shielding her from the light striping into their cell in long, violent beams. "What's going on?" he asked.

"I don't know," she told him, breaking out of his hold to climb onto her bed, stretching to try to see out of the window-slit. "Either someone's trying to get in, or someone's trying to get out."

There was a definite commotion outside, people yelling, things crashing—something was _happening _and he didn't know what. "Can you see anything?"

"Yeah," Claire threw back to him. "There's a bunch of people all over by the east wall, looks like they're fighting or someone—there's like a circle of people and then one person in the middle. It looked like this when _you _were out there, except this guy is winning."

"Hey!"

"Sorry, but he is," she told him. "Wait—where'd he go? I can't see him anymore!"

"What can you see?

"I don't know, there are still one or two guards up, but I don't know—I can't tell. I think he's gone."

As the last of her words hit his ears, another sound burst in from the door—a slam and a slight _clank_ on the outside, someone at the door, outside the door. He grabbed Claire and pulled her down from the bed, moving her behind him. "Why do you always _do _that?" she snapped, slapping his hand away.

"I'm just trying to protect you," he snapped back, attention focused on the noise at the door.

"Well, that would have been nice _three years ago,_" she hissed, shoving back to the front.

There was a louder _clank_, the sound of metal on concrete, and then the door swung open, cutting a swath of blinding light into the cell with a single person framed against it, lockcutter in hand.

"Hiro?" Peter gasped, moving forward involuntarily, almost falling toward his friend, standing there the last person he expected to see, shock and surprise and sudden relief. "Oh my God, I forgive you. I forgive you, I forgive you, I forgive you—I forgive you for everything! I can't believe you're here!"

Hiro backed away, looking at Peter with the same surprise that Peter was looking at him. "What the hell?" he said. "What are you doing here? Who are you? We already _have _a Peter—are you one of those universe-jumpers?"

"Oh," Peter said, his voice falling down flat with realization. "You're not—right. Okay. Yes, I'm a Peter from a different universe. Just get me out of here."

The guards were already running up behind them, shouting to each other, pointing. "We have to move," Delta-Hiro said. "I can't take both of you at the same time."

"Take Claire," Peter said, shoving her forward. "I don't know how you can teleport in this, but I can't."

"It takes practice," Delta-Hiro said cryptically. "You won't be able to do it. They'll be here before I get back to you—grab my sword and my gun, use it to fend them off. Keep the door open, stay outside the cell, I can't teleport inside of it. Stay alive until I make it back."

Peter had never used as sword in his life, but he took it in one hand and the gun in the other, standing back as Delta-Hiro grabbed Claire and blinked her out of existence, disappearing as the guards came up on the cell, bullets sparking against the walls as they opened fire. "Damn it!" he yelled as he ducked back behind the door. _I can't just stand here, I'll _die_! They'll shoot me and I'll die! _The sword was only good for close-range fighting and he still wasn't the best shot—he needed his _abilities_, needed them back, needed them now before he got himself killed.

He waited for a few seconds, working up the nerve to run straight into oncoming fire, and then he closed his eyes and jumped out the door, hitting the ground with his hands over his head and rolling, trying to get over to the side of the building where the corner would block him from the bullets, just for a few seconds, just until Delta-Hiro got back. As he scrambled behind the wall, he felt something hit his knee and bite into it, tearing into it and turning his knee instantly on-fire immobile, collapsing under him, not healing not healing.

There was a small _pop _and then Delta-Hiro appeared beside him, grabbing him and pulling him even farther out of the guard's line of fire as they moved around, coming after them. "What the hell took you so long?" Peter yelled, and he knew it wasn't fair but his knee had a thousand white-hot pains stabbing through it and a bullet lodged in it and he couldn't walk and blood was staining his jeans all down his leg. Delta-Hiro didn't reply, just grabbed him and closed his eyes, and jumped.

It _hurt_. Peter thought maybe it hurt more because he was the helpless passenger this time, the tagalong, not the mover, because he didn't remember it feeling like this the first time. It had felt sticky but not this kind of horrible clinging, like a thousand hands wrapped around him, pulling at him, willing to see him torn limb from limb before they saw him leave. As soon as he felt his feet hit the ground he fell away from Delta-Hiro, dead brown grass crackling under him as he collapsed to the ground.

"Damn it!" he swore, glaring at his knee. "Damn it, damn it, _damn it_! When does this damn power-blocking stuff wear off?"

"It lasts for about thirty minutes," Delta-Hiro said coldly, looking down on him with his arms crossed.

"Damn it!" Peter said louder.

"In case you're wondering, Claire is fine."

"Really?" Peter said, instantly distracted. "That's great! Thank you so much, we really would have—wait. Wait a second."

"What is it?"

Dealing with this icy, shuttered version of Hiro was really starting to put things in perspective for Peter. Of course, if he remembered right, this was the universe they'd had to play crowd control with, so perhaps Delta-Hiro had a reason to be a little cold toward him. "I was supposed to save her," he explained, pressing his hand against his knee to stop the blood flow. "Do you think it counts if you saved her instead? I guess it doesn't matter, as long as she gets saved."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Delta-Hiro said flatly.

"Of course you don't," Peter said. "So…half an hour, huh? I guess I can wait for half an hour." No response from Delta-Hiro, who was already moving along the edge of the plateau, staring down at the prison camp, watching the little black-specks-of-guards mill about the yard. Peter moved his hand and eyed his gunshot wound critically, watching it bleed. "Half an hour, huh? I wonder if this will scar."


	50. Alpha: Sutures

Lightning was in the sky and thunder followed after, crashing into the empty burnt spaces with a roar like an ancient god, a slashing, sky-cracking cry. Thunder so loud the panes of the windows rattled, the ones that hadn't been broken or bashed in, shaking in their window-frames, afraid. Shadow-puppets threw themselves on the floor, sawed out rough by the lightning and projected in silhouettes of nearby buildings and far-away skyscrapers. The famous New York City skyline sketched out by the flashes of light on their floor. Things were distorted. The thunder was trying to scare them to death.

Hiro and Audrey were on the floor with the shadows, his arms wrapped around her too tightly, as if he could protect her from the elements. He couldn't. Their power had shorted out with a fireworks shower of sparks an hour ago, so here they were, propped up against a wall with only fickle lightning-light and emergency candles to see by. Audrey had made them an emergency peanut-butter-sandwich dinner--she was pretty sure a thunderstorm didn't qualify as an emergency, but the oven was dead so what could she do?--and they sat wondering whether anyone would remember to turn the electricity back on in a condemned apartment complex on the edge of the city. There was a good possibility they'd be eating peanut butter sandwiches for the rest of their lives.

Thunder bashed its sound against their ears, sound swooping in from nowhere, and Audrey jumped. She regretted it as soon as she did, scolding herself about being a cop and a bona-fide Tough Chick and not showing weakness, but it was too late to pretend it wasn't all making her a little nervous. Hiro pulled her in a little tighter against his chest, which was nice, but it meant he'd noticed her reaction. She hated that. She loved Hiro, and she loved the fact that he was here to have his arms around her in the first place, but that didn't mean she was willing to be the weaker half of this relationship. She wasn't going to be the damsel in distress; she'd sooner jump off a bridge. She didn't want him to think she needed to be protected against thunder.

She sat still and noticed how he felt against her--taut, almost shaking. Not afraid--very tense, tight nearly to snapping. Overstrung. If it was because of the thunder, she could sympathize, but she knew it wasn't. No telepathy needed here--she knew exactly what was pulling him this tight. "Hiro," she said, her words falling out into the darkness, instantly swallowed whole.

The sound of her voice seemed to snap something into him, a vicious sudden backlash--his arms puling away before she knew it, and he was standing up against the wall, hand rubbing down the side of his face. Like he was trying to massage his thoughts, rub a couple of them out, maybe. The ones that were making him feel guilty, angry, unsettled. He couldn't sit still.

"Hiro," she repeated firmly, determined to break into his tailspin, be a conscience in case he was ignoring his. "Why don't you just go after him?"

"Go after who?" Automatic, defensive. Ultimately unnecessary--no telepathy needed. They both knew who they were talking about.

She was willing to state the obvious anyway--it was a good skill for relationships. "Go after Peter. He's not back and it's been almost eight hours. I know you're worried about him. You're going to pull all your hair out if you don't do something with yourself."

"I am _not _going after him," Hiro said, and there was still enough anger in his voice to make it true. A little more regret was sneaking in, and a lot of worry. Enough to let Audrey know that if something had happened to Peter, Hiro would break like a clock wound backwards. Mechanical innards spilling out like guts, all springs and coggy mechanisms. Peter and Hiro fit together, moved each other along; two interlocking cogs. Now they were trying to turn in ways they weren't supposed to, to turn against each other. Audrey could see so clearly that it wasn't going to work, and judging from the guilt on Hiro's face, they saw it too. There was just a small matter of injured pride. Stubbornness. Male dominance sub-issues.

"This is stupid!" she told him, too sick of watching him tear himself to useless, unlovable shreds. "This is just some stupid fight, you've had worse and you'll have as bad again. What was the issue--you didn't want to play the universe game anymore? Fine. Easily fixed. Go back. Keep doing it." He turned to her in surprise, trying to fathom her sudden one-eighty on the issue, not quite following the twists and turns of her feminine logic. To her mind, there wasn't much to it--Hiro was unhappy and it was like it was her own injury, and it _hurt._ If they weren't going to back down, she would do some backing down of her own. "I know I was the one who was so opposed to it in the first place. I know I told you that it was dangerous and that it was a waste of time. I take it back. You and Peter want to go save the world? Fine. Good. I think it's a worthy pursuit. Go save the world."

"You don't _understand_," he said. And she didn't. There were pieces in this game that he couldn't show her--necessary and even kind, to keep her in the dark, but it also meant that she couldn't see what was so hard about it. She thought she had the solution--of course she did. She had the blinders he'd put in place, trying to protect her from knowing everything. He had his arms around her, trying to protect her from the thunder. "It's not that easy, Audrey! You have _no idea _what you're asking me to do!"

"Oh, I'm _so _sorry that I'm trying to help!" she said, stung at the yelling, the tone of voice. "I'm sorry I'm trying to fix this, because God knows you never will! What's your big reason, Hiro? Why can't you just say sorry and keep world-hunting with him? What is so damn hard about that? It's not like you have to make a choice--"

"I _do _have to make a choice!" Words were clawing their way up his throat and he knew he should stop them, but they were secrets and they didn't want to be contained. They wanted out. "I _made _my choice, Audrey, don't you understand? _I chose you. _I was given the choice between having a perfect, wonderful world and having this Godforsaken hellhole and keeping you, and I picked_ you. _I picked you! I threw everything else out the window and I chose her to stay here with _you_, to stay here and _never _get to the world we were trying to make. I did it because I _love _you, you idiot--so don't _ask _me to choose again!"

Shellshocked silence. Hiro's mind catching up to his mouth as he realized the secrets he'd just broken; Audrey starting to catch the horror as she realized exactly what he meant. The thunder cracked behind them, rolling through their bones, bouncing through their empty, stone ribcages. Love trying to survive the things that had just been said.

Neither of them heard the footsteps down the hallway, but when the door opened they couldn't ignore it. They turned to see Zane Taylor in the doorway, soaking wet and dripping, a flash of lightning illuminating the edges of him. He paused as he walked in, nearly tripping--Zane wasn't Harvard material but even he could feel the thickness of the air, like a ring before a boxing match.

"Taylor," Hiro said instantly, sharply, before Zane could regret coming. "What is it?"

"Well," Zane said uncomfortably. "I just wanted your help on something. If this is a bad time, I could--"

"It's a perfect time," Hiro said brusquely. _Get me out of here._ "Anything."

"All right, then." Now that his concerns had been superficially dismissed, the discomfort was sliding away from Zane, replaced by the unsteady passion that had been there before. Anger and worry and outrage. Anger, mostly. "I'm going out on a jailbreak. It's could use a wingman."

"Just let me get my coat," Hiro said grimly, brushing past Audrey, avoiding her gaze like he was picking through a minefield--careful not to set off any explosions.

"Wait," she said sharply. She might be dizzy with the blow Hiro had just dealt her, but somehow her common sense was still intact. Everything else, she'd think about later. For now, she needed details. "What jailbreak? For who?"

"A girl named Michelle Valcek," Zane told her, anger bright in his voice. One hand twitching and the other laying still at his side. "Just got picked up by the Homeland Security. She needs help, and fast. Want to come?"

"No, I do not want to come!" She swatted the question away like an insect, still trying to drive to the heart of this. Something was wrong, she could feel it on the back of her neck. Something was bad about this. "And what do you mean, Homeland Security? Where did they take her?"

"Where do you think they took her? To their headquarters."

And there it was: the reason for the bad feeling. "Hiro," she said, grabbing onto his coat as he passed, swinging him around to face her. "Hiro, you can't go out on this. This is stupid. This is really, really dangerous."

"Let go," he said, trying to move away. He felt horrible and he felt hunted, his desire to get out of the apartment _now, _as fast as possible, overriding everything. "It's fine. I'll be fine."

"You will _not _be fine, you're trying to break into Homeland Security headquarters!" She dropped her voice a few decibels, whispering straight to him. "You cannot go out there with Zane Taylor. He has not planned this out. He's _crazy, _you know that and I know that. He's not stable. He's going to get you killed."

Probably some part of Hiro's mind knew she was right, but not the part that had control. All he could think was that he'd told her, that he'd somehow let himself put the future of twenty-six universes on her shoulders. He'd told her that she was the reason he wasn't going to fix it. He didn't know how she was dealing with it, but he couldn't deal at all. "I'll be back," he half-promised, pulling out of her grip, nodding to Zane as he passed by him at the door. Closed the door and was gone.

She thought that might be a lie--she thought he might not be coming back. It was a terrible thought but she couldn't seem to shake it--it played on a loop as she stood looking towards the door he'd just gone through, thinking about all the ways he could die. She didn't move; her bones were stone and she was stone, systems broken down with weariness and ill-use. Mental and emotional trauma: treat for shock. She didn't know how long she stood there--it could have been hours but more likely it was fifteen minutes. She stood there until Peter showed up, suddenly appearing behind her like an omen as the thunder struck behind them.

He started when he saw her, barely a darker shadow in the unelectric blackness--just _standing_ there even as he walked up next to her, with an expression that told him at once everything he needed to know. Something had gone very badly here. When his wound had finally healed all the way, he'd hesitated before teleporting home, not sure what kind of reception he'd get considering the drama of his last exit. Now he was glad he'd hurried.

"Audrey," he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "What happened? Tell me what happened."

She seemed to collapse in on herself at his touch, her shoulders accordioning in and her arms falling to her sides, and she grabbed hold of him mostly to keep herself standing. "Peter, thank God. We thought you were--but you're just--Hiro left and--Zane." _Well, that's frustrating. _She really did mean to be speaking in complete sentences, but things seemed to be getting a little complicated on the way to her mouth.

Peter wasn't patient enough to wait for it to get fixed--he'd knew it was about Hiro and he knew it was bad. He needed the rest. "Do you mind if I--?" he asked, touching his own head.

"No--go 'head." Not under normal circumstances, not in a million years, but just now it was an easier way to get it out.

He stepped closer to her and focused on her thoughts, pulling out the things that he needed--careful not to touch anything he didn't need to. Mind-reading was one of Peter's least favorite abilities, and he tried to keep it shut down when he wasn't using it. The last thing he needed was everyone else's thoughts, when half the time he couldn't even make sense of his own. Times like these, though--"Got it," he said, and suddenly he understood Audrey's panic. "Oh my--you're kidding--he didn't--_Hiro!" _Suddenly the sentence-fragment thing was understandable as well. "I'll get him."

No time for any more explanation than that, no matter _what _state Audrey's blood pressure was in. Hiro was running very good odds for getting himself killed. If Peter had been entirely human, he would have sprinted for the door. Instead, he shut his eyes hard and tried to imagine where they might go--what they might falsely think was a weak spot in the cinderblock fortress that was Homeland Security. _Gates, _he decided, _if it was me I'd try gates. _A sickening lurch and he was there, rain pelting diagonally against his face--fifteen feet of wrought metal skyscraping up in front of him.

He'd teleported to the side of the main gate, having no desire to get caught and shot in the head the instant he showed up. He knew guards patrolled the perimeter of the place, but last he'd heard, none of the patrols ventured outside the metal fencing. He thought he would probably be safe enough to see them coming.

He had sudden second thoughts about this theory as he heard a burst of quiet noises behind him, the shuffle of careful footfalls. _Damn it all, _he swore silently. _Hiro, you'd better stay alive for just a couple more minutes while I take care of this. _He slid carefully back from the fence, hiding himself in the long shadows of nearby buildings, and watched until the noise became a person.

The guard came from the direction of the main gate, walking carefully along the fencing--Peter waited for the man's head and shoulders to come into view, and then he moved. He came in from behind and tackled the man, getting one hand over his mouth as he pinned him against the fence, scrabbling for the guard's gun.

Only it wasn't a guard. It was Hiro--black eyes going wide at the attack, pushing automatically away before he had the same revelation as Peter. This wasn't an enemy--at least, probably not. Comparatively not. Peter let go instantly, jumping away from Hiro as if he expected violence. _Remember two days ago when you oh-so-briefly tried to kill me? We're not going to forget that. _"What are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here?" Hiro whispered furiously, throwing the question back. "What are _you _doing here?"

"You're supposed to be in _there," _Peter said, jerking an angry finger at the Homeland Security building eighty feet away. "On some jailbreak mission!"

"Yeah, well, I realized it was a stupid idea," Hiro said blankly. "I was going home."

"You were--" Peter gaped lamely. Every bit of the wind stolen from his sails.

"Why?" Hiro said suspiciously. "What the hell are _you _doing here anyway?" A pause as a thought occurred to him--a sudden and correct hypothesis. "You weren't--rescuing me, were you?"

"Yes, if you absolutely must know," Peter snapped, in a sudden roaring bad temper. The rain was driving painfully hard, and he was getting water down the back of his collar, and he was less than a hundred feet from the most dangerous building in New York City, and now on top of it all, his rescue mission was a failure. "I was. I was coming to save you. There, are you happy?"

He couldn't tell in the dark with everything blurred by rain, but he thought Hiro might be smiling. No, he was definitely smiling. "Happy? Not generally speaking. You?"

"No, I'm pretty unhappy," Peter agreed, feeling inexplicably mollified. "Sort of unhappier the last two days, though." He said it quietly and casually, but he knew Hiro picked up on it--he was smiling again. Peter pretended to ignore the smile, squinting crankily up at the rain-choked sky. "It's very wet out here. We should probably go home."

"Yeah," Hiro said, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Let's go home."


End file.
